PET SCANS are cool.

First of all, there's the container for the radioactive glucose.  The syringe is wrapped in 20 pounds of metal.  It's a huge cylinder and in my private little room, where I am supposed to sit quietly and 'power down' -- I feel like SECRET AGENT MAN!  (cue music -- SECRET AGENT MAN!)

Both the techs from yesterday's MRI and today's PET scan have that perfect sense of how to be present, supportive, authentic and professional.  They see me.   (They also both did a damn good job of finding my veins.)

PET scan man tells me there are no side effects to the radioactive glucose and after meditating with my favorite channel-the-light-chant and hanging out in that gently shaking and rolling PET scanner, I felt HEAVENLY.

I floated out to hospital's Starbuck's for the indulgently overpriced turkey-bacon sandwich and a venti latte.

Even after I settle down into the chemo chair at oncology my blood pressure is 88/60.  I'm riding the white light.

The bone building infusion takes 30 minutes and is easy.  The hormone shots in the butt?   YeoOOowwch.    But it all beats the heck out of chemo.

I can do this.

At dinner we're talking movies.  I ask Delphine what she thought about the choice of actress for 'Hazel' in The Fault in Our Stars.  She talks a bit about the pros and cons of this particular actress -- but then says "but Augustus does NOT look like a cancer kid."

"Well I don't look like a cancer person."  I say.

"Oh.  Yeah."  replies Delphine.

"Uh, Mom?"  Paul says with an I-ve-got-something-you-really-need-to-hear regard.

"??"

"Uh...you don't have....breasts???"

"Oh yeah," I replied, "that!"

I definitely forget I don't have breasts.  And I think Delphine does as well.  But I find it hysterical that my son, now growing older, is so aware of my lack of 'em.