Tomorrow morn, come 9 a.m. a man with about a decade of grad and post grad thinky thought knowledge, and another decade of colon spelunking, will send a small snakelike camera down the receiving end of my digestive tract, and see what he can see. Will he see ulcers? Will he see colonized alien invaders? Will he see Nothing? Who knows? I sure as shinola don't.
What I do know is that I'm on yet another path of healing. I've been doing my walking the past few days, a few light weight sets, and already I'm feeling the quiet low notes of endorphins cruising my neural superhighway. I went to see my Pain Guy and he whirled his little machine and poof, my back and stomach pain went away. And my eating, while still maybe not clean, then at least it's no longer drrrty.
And the signs of healing, of Yes, are everywhere. Why just last night, I dreamt that Jason Mraz was my BFF. He hotwired a 1972 fiery orange Dodge Challenger and we took off for a joyride. What more auspicious sign for a successful med procedure could a gal ask for?
So wish me Godspeed as I yet again enter into the land of Western Med, the theater of biopsy, and take the really special drugs, the kind they open a vein to best pour the juice right in, and let another doc all up in my stuffs.
Hot Jesus-n-grits, do I know how to party or what?
(I wonder if he'll let me twitpic?)