The Daily Zap

Every weekday at 4 p.m., I go to Northwest Hospital nuclear medicine department.

I put on a slightly too-small hospital gown and wait in the waiting room to be summoned. There are three people waiting for me: Mike, who used to be a merchant marine (he's in charge); another woman tech who changes all the time; and Mekdem, the very sweet Ethiopian girl intern.

They help me up onto a hard table, position my left arm over my head, and I grasp a handle put there for the purpose. This exposes — and I mean exposes — my left "chest" and underarm. They cover the naughty bits with a warmed towel but it's always pretty precariously balanced and I worry it will slide off. The right hand gets tucked up under my right hip. Then they line up a laser light with the two pin-point tatoos on my sternum and the one on my left torso. This takes a bit of adjusting so that things line up exactly.

Then everyone but me leaves the room and I start telling myself: "There is only one Good: omniscient, omnipotent, and omnipresent; there is only one Good: omniscient, etc." while a big, long zzzzzzzzzzt! goes off. They all come back and turn the table a bit so they can zap from another angle, leave the room, and zzzzzzzzzt! again. During all this, I am obsessed with that damned towel. I can't move to see if it's actually slipped into my armpit but it sure feels that way, so between praying I neurose about being exposed.

I pick up parking coupons, get dressed, and leave, except on Thursday when I meet with Dr. Cutie Pie about anything that's bugging me or him. We've become quite chummy. I'd like to take him home and tie him up in my yard.

So far, the side effects are a nasty radiation burn that covers my whole left armpit and folliculitis (don't ask) across my chest. They all assure me that both things will go away after the radiation ends, but I find that hard to believe.

On the upside, the "reconstructive surgery" (boob job) is an outpatient procedure paid for by insurance, and I will go to my death with the perky hooters of a teenager.

Grammy Kathy Has a Zoo, EE-I-EE-I-OH

My estimable granddaughter, Peyton Avery Gabriel Nesler, declared our house a zoo, and she is right. Here are the occupants.
Bodhi the Serious Pug is mine. I paid for him. However, like all the pets in the house, he belongs to Terry. Big Al is Ben's. Terry paid for him and he has hysterics whenever she comes home because he, too, belongs to her.

Al is a legendary food thief. He has to his credit: a 7-lb. ham, an entire package of Rollos, a half a pan of brownies, a sample-sized bar of Dove soap, many unprotected dishes of cat food and the paper towels they were served on, and much more.

Chocolate is supposed to kill dogs. No one has mentioned this to Al apparently. It doesn't bother him at all. He's always very ashamed, though. Bodhi shares in the spoils but is not in the least ashamed. He has no conscience.

Girlie is the oldest cat and the best hunter. She understands that we do not like her bringing her half-dead presents into the house but she's just so dang proud she has to show them off. So now she brings them in through the cat door in the dining room, trots down the hall, and parades her kill around the living room so all can admire it, with everyone yelling and gagging and ordering her out. She does a big circle, just out of reach, so everyone can appreciate her latest catch and then takes it back outside the way she came.

Buggy is a big doofus and I mean big, half Himalayan and half sneaky orange neighbor cat. He looks like a big, fuzzy, cross-eyed walking toiletseat cover. He stayed in the house the first six months of his life with us, then was let outside in the spring. He loves the outdoors. He has a dogloo on the deck where he goes if the weather is really nasty so he can stay outside and not be reduced to an icicle. He hangs with the dogs and will line up with them for treats, sitting just like they do.

Hootie is the youngest and a little bastard. He was weak and sickly as a kitten and as a young cat. Now he's a big strapping bully who harasses the other cats until they kick his heinie and he remembers his place.

Finally, there is Chloe the cockatiel. She doesn't cotton to anyone but me. She can't talk, she isn't affectionate, and she does her level best to kill anyone who tries to make up to her. All she does is eat and poop. Not a very satisfying pet.

The only less satisfying pets we have had have gone to Guinea Pig Heaven: Ping and Pong, Peruvian pooping machines. Also deceased are several rats and a gecko named Sticky. I decreed no more rodents (they stink) and no more new cats.

This is ridiculous.

Getting Nuked and Other Amusements

Here's the latest. Radiation starts today, July 2nd, and goes until August 18th. From all reports, it isn't too bad (knock on wood). I go every day at 3:30 p.m., which works out pretty well for my job.

First you lie on a really uncomfortable table, then they line you up by the little tattoos I got two weeks ago (two on the breast bone and one on the left side of my torso) using lasers. Then they zap you. I hope there are some positive side effects to this activity, like turning green and muscular.

The plastic surgeon says she can't do any reconstruction until I'm at least 6 months past the radiation (she prefers a year) so I'll be wearing a pudding-filled balloon on the left until then. We'll meet again in February and evaluate the situation.

That's all I know for now. Thanks for all your kind concern.