Today was my next scheduled test, another PET CT scan to keep tabs on how the cancer is doing in its turn-tail-and-run situation. Originally Belovedest had requested today off in order to drive me, on account of the tube is a very small space and I do not like those, no, not at all.

Their work-from-home day is Tuesday.
Wednesday was Juneteenth, which Washington State recognizes as a holiday now.
Today was my scan, for which I need to not exercise for the preceding 24 hours and fast for the last 6 of those (for optimal radioactive glucose uptake).

I woke up to Roomba-pet chewing on the speaker wires in the bedroom. I marched out to grumble at Belovedest over the unclosed door, but poked my head in the living room and did not see the expected Lorge Draggon lounging in the middle of the floor. Instead they were bundled up on the couch, and there were two lines on the test stick. Motherfucking god damn.

Belovedest tried to say something Brave about claustrophobia, and meds related thereto, and not feeling All that bad.

"I am not," I said, "bringing a Covid patient in to the cancer center." And that was that.

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