After my second medical appointment of the day, I came home, went to the southernmost room of the house, leaned against the doorframe, and in my most sultry voice announced, "hello, sexy." Mind you, I was the only human in the house, and the entity whom I was addressing was my freshly-delivered new washer and dryer pair that I've been waiting two weeks to meet in person (as it were). My last set was decent. High efficiency, front load, yada, yada. They were not terribly old, in laundry machine terms, at around 9 years. But when youngest child got a house, we concocted a plan to sell her our big HE set for less than she would pay for smaller, less fancy ones, and sometime around Black Friday I'd get brand new ones. Until then, she could just do her laundry and visit mommy at the same time. Then an excellent Labor Day sale moved up our plans by a lot. Now here I am, cooing and purring at a new washer and dryer like the biggest dork on the block, while Alfred looks on in terror, with his tail poofed out, at the unfamiliar sights and sounds in the room where his food bowls sit.
My first doctor visit this morning was a disappointment. I have never been to a podiatrist, for all that I have had debilitating foot pain that greatly diminished my quality of life for twenty years (plus). I had hoped that she would have some tips that would complement the care I get from my rheumatologist. Not even a blip on her radar. As for the issue on the soles of my feet I was there to discuss, even that was completely uninteresting to her. Needless to say, she did not invite me to return, and I found no reason to suggest furthering our relationship.
The evening's entertainment was much more lively. I got a phone call from the imaging tech saying that his lab was way ahead of schedule, and would I like to come in an hour early. I jumped at the chance (even though it meant missing the appliance delivery event). I think I have found my soulmate, in a purely appropriate professional sense. Every joke he made, I had an immediate rejoinder, and vice versa. We were on the exact same wavelength. I don't think I ever expected getting an MRI to be fun, but it actually was. He even did just fine getting the IV in for the contrast, and from me, that is a huge compliment. It's not relaxing, on average, lying on a narrow table (remember I've gained a bit of girth in the last year that we still haven't explained) in a very snug tube that makes the most horrific noises. It was as good as it could be, though. I was held in place with a cage around my head, and the headphones I wore helped keep me exactly in place and still. They piped in a Pandora station based on my answer to "who's your favorite band?" (I resisted the Abbott and Costello routine, even though my answer was "Who.") My legs were up on a sufficiently high wedge of foam so that my low back was able to tolerate 45-60 minutes in the machine. With my eyes covered, as I prefer, I seriously almost fell asleep several times. If he hadn't kept interrupting the music to check and see if I was okay, I might have done so.
I don't know how long I have to wait for an interpretation of the MRI. The neurologist gets to tase my arms on Monday. I probably have to wait for an office visit after that to see whether this adds up to anything interesting, or just riding the gabapentin white horse indefinitely. Not sure which answer is better.
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