Unremarkable

Since Monday, I've bitten off all my fingernails. Gross habit...I know, but I'm not going to lie. It's been an anxiety-filled week awaiting the MRi results.

While waiting to hear the nurse call my name, I think back to Monday. "Why are you here, honey?" the receptionist at the MRi place had asked me.

"I've got a brain-fish that kinda flops like this," I said, making a wavy motion with my right hand and holding it up beside my head.

She looked at me. "A brain-fish?"

"Yeah, it's kinda like this flippy floppy feeling on the right hemisphere of my brain." How's that for technical language?

That was before the MRi. Now, it's Friday, and I'm going to see what this brain-fish is all about. I'd already determined that whatever the outcome of the results...it is what it is. It's not like I can change anything. I'd get through it. The Lord will help me.

The large wooden door whooshes open, and the nurse calls my name. I go through the preliminary stuff--weight, temperature, blood pressure, pulse. All good. I'm as fit as a fiddle.

Except for the brain fish.

The doctor comes in. I like this country doctor. To him, you're not a number. You're a patient. He spends however much time is needed to get to the root of your problem. Which is probably why he's almost a half hour late. I'm not his first patient of the day. I've been watching the clock because I also have to drive up to Loa for Buena's vet appointment. Yep, schedule it all...everything...even the job interview...on one day. Why space it out?

The doctor pulls up a chair next to where I'm sitting. He lays a folder on the desk between us. "I honestly didn't think we'd have this back in time," he says. "I'm surprised, so I haven't really had time to look at this."

"It's okay," I assure him. I just want to know what it says on the paper he's pulling from the folder.

He reads it aloud while my eyes scan the page. Ventricles and sulci are normal. No diffusion restriction, hemorrhage, or midline shift. Mo mass visually. No lesions detected at the brainstem. No cerebellar pathology is identified. The cerebellopontine angles appear normal. Orbits, sinuses, and mastoids are normal. The craniocervical junction is unremarkable.

"I'm unremarkable?"

"It just means that there's nothing the matter," he says, launching into a hefty explanation of what this means.

Inwardly, though, I'm smiling. Nothing, nothing, nothing...is good news to me.

"It does say that there are mild supratentorial small vessel ischemic changes," he says, reading on about how these are possibly from migraines. "Do you have migraines?"

"I used to get them," I say, "but they stopped for about ten years. Recently, I have been getting headaches again, but not as bad as they used to be."

He concludes that I might be getting migraines again.

I thank him for his time and ask if it's okay to leave. "I've got to drive up to Loa. My dog has a vet visit today."

He makes sure there's nothing I want to discuss, and I assure him I'm fine. I'm so happy! The brain-fish isn't a tumor. Thank you, Jesus! I head for the door and wave good-bye to the receptionists.

Buena and I drive to Loa. I can tell she's scared. The vet holds her, and I rub her head and coo at her, saying nice things and promising her it will all be okay. The whites of her eyes start turning red, and I hope the gal administering the shots hurries. Buena is not happy. She receives three shots to update her record and practically bolts from the room when she's released. (It's an open-air clinic. All one, big happy room.)

On the way back, I stop and get her some yummy mush canned food. Filet mignon, it says on the label. She deserves it.

Before heading back over the mountain, I stop and see my friend in Torrey, and he inspires me to do great things this summer. I want to. I hope to. I plan to.

Once we're on the Escalante side of the mountain, I pull off down a good dirt road and let Buena out of the car. We play on the rocks, feeling the warm sunshine and breathing the clean air. At this point, I'm probably at about 6000 feet. It feels good. Buena and I hike down the rock incline. Coming back up isn't so easy, and I'm glad I stopped when I did. I need to get into shape.

When I finally get home, back to my new "spot," I can't help but smile at how perfect it is. This is exactly where I want to be right now.

P.S. -- Thanks for all your thoughts and prayers leading up to the MRi and throughout this week. You all know who you are, and I appreciate you so much! :)