Cortisone

I have another follow-up exam tomorrow. Every four to six months, I have one. I'm not scared. Or rather, I am. I'm claustrophobic, and I'm terrified of the MRI tube. I'm more afraid of the MRI tube than I am of the idea of still having the tumor. Tumors don't require claustrophobic tubes. They require cortisone instead.

Cortisone, in my case, meant sleeping only a couple of hours a night. But most importantly, for my partner's happiness, it accentuated certain aspects of my character. Normally, I consider myself an intelligent, good-looking, capable person. After taking cortisone, I started to think that before taking it, I had been unnecessarily modest.

I've never taken cocaine, but maybe the effect is similar. At least in my case. At the peak of my euphoria, I'd even started saying what I thought out loud at home. If you were to overlay the data on the quantity of cortisone in my body and the opinions I expressed at home, I think they would be perfectly identical.

The positive thing for my relationship with my partner is that I stopped eventually. I still think today that I'm going through cortisone withdrawal. I believe that if companies discovered its effects, they would give it away for free every morning to every employee. Forget stand-up. Rock and roll, guys!

Tomorrow I have a follow-up exam. 

Someone will have to accompany me to the exam. Partly because it's more than ten minutes from home, and beyond that distance, a dark world begins. Partly because after the exam, I'll need to be driven home and positioned in the car. In my head, I've added a few things to the post-tumor experience, including the voice of the GPS saying "Recalculating" even without the GPS.

For the exam, I won't have any substance to make me feel even a little relaxed. Obviously, I need to avoid anything derived from cortisone. Because I can already imagine myself in the tube, grinding my teeth and asking for a mirror to see how handsome I am. I know I can ask for a mirror anyway. It's a trick they used at another hospital. They mounted one towards the exit of the tube so I could see out.

In reality, I thought they had done something to me. Give me something. Before the exam. But actually no. I know the anesthesiologist had learned to look at me with a hypnotic gaze. I think it's one of the powers they teach in anesthesiology school. To stare, to smile, to hypnotize.

Before the last surgery, there were four female anesthesiologists. All young girls. Now, you could imagine that I was already high before I arrived. It's an interesting hypothesis. Especially since I remember them laughing at the jokes I was making. So, putting it all together, I think my partner would say I was high.

At the moment, the thing I keep repeating in my head is that tomorrow I'm going. I'll tell a couple of my hilarious jokes to the doctor. I'll tell him that if I sense any bad vibes, I'll let him know. Maybe it's a call for him. I could give him some therapy. Not for the bad vibes. For the doctor. But I know I can't talk in the tube. Okay. Maybe I'm not claustrophobic. I'm scared of not being able to talk.

It's an interesting theory. The doctor who opened up my head told me that during the surgery, he would spray me with ice water for epileptic seizures.

Could it be that he was spraying me with ice water to shut me up? Could it be that I was talking during the surgery and maybe asking for cortisone?