Okay, so a CT scan is NOTHING like the Google search hits told me it would be.  There are no bindings, leather or otherwise.  There are no large, burly people.  It doesn’t feel even moderately dangerous.  No one yells at you to lay there and take it.  Marylin Manson is not bumping through the stereo in a dimly lit room, there isn’t even any lub….

*ahem*

I had a totally freaking coronary about the fact that I had no sitter for my kids.  My neighbor had agreed to be “on call” for my 10 year old, and he agreed to be paid $5 to watch his sister while I was gone.  Now, I’m a pretty crappy mom, but I haven’t sunk that low just yet.  Yet.

So everyone piled in the car with every toy we could cram into a Dora backpack, and off we went to explore the wonders of the Canadian Waiting Room System.  Where there were toys, other people, and a wheelchair.  Yep, they would be just fine.

So, they called me back and thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster I didn’t bother wearing my sexy underwear, because this is what they handed me to put on.

When they say that one size fits all, they’re not kidding.  I could have put everyone in those pants.  Hey, did you know that 90% of the time, if you hover over my pictures, a love letter appears?  Try it, you’ll like it.

And then, the moment of truth.  Also called, the moment I chickened out and could not bring myself to ask for permission to take pictures.  Because I try not to be a freak.  In real life.  Bygones.  I climbed onto the table and they slid me into the donut thing that had a shocking lack of powdered sugar on it anywhere, and we began.

You know in that movie Contact, when they finally build the secret alien swirling vortex thing, and Jodi Foster climbs inside of it and it’s all whooooop….whoooop….whoooop until it starts spinning really fast and going whoopwhoopwhoopwhoopwhoop then the walls drip away and she is shot headfirst through what I imagine is an exact replica of the inside of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s penis and then she lands in the middle of a Monet painting, on crack, and her dead father is there to greet her or something and then it’s back through the Amazing Technocolor Dream Urethra and *poof*?  No one saw a thing but her?

Yeah, it was nothing like that.  Except the whooping.  There was a lot of that.  And they did make me keep my hands over my head the whole time (and Ms. Changes Pants While Driving?  SO loving you for the heads up on the pit shave before I left.  Really.  Excellent tip) There were also laser targets pointing right at my happy trail, which just made me mad on seven different levels, and a sticker over a small window on the very front of the machine that read, “Laser Lights.  Do NOT Look Here.”

Oh, those people have GOT to be kidding me.  There is no possible way I could have looked at anything else.  And if little mutant babies start growing in my eyeballs, I’m totally billing them for the eye-epidural someone is going to have to invent and administer to my eyeballs upon delivery.

And then it was over.  In four minutes, start to finish.  Now, I have certainly had dates that lasted less time than that, but I think I just expected more, you know?  Some sort of pomp, followed by the slightest bit of circumstance?  Nope, nothing.  I asked the tech if we could do it again 10 more times, so I could milk the silence for all it was worth, and she said no.  Meanie.  There were more patients to be seen and a waiting room full of people to save from my toddler who had just stopped howling about the time I stepped out of the tube of doom.

On a happy note, I did remember halfway through the CT Scan that I was awfully happy it wasn’t an MRI, because I just don’t think my IUD and those magnets would care much about all that flesh standing inbetween their love.  So at least I had that going for me.

I am all about a little well-placed bondage.

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There’s no decent or moral way to segue out of that, so I’ll spare you, sufficed to say that I am more than capable of staying absolutely still when necessity dictates it so.  Usually.  Only when it’s awesome.

What’s not awesome is having some unknown thing totally freaking wrong with you.  I have seen SO MANY doctors trying to figure out what the hell is causing certain parts of my body to wage global-thermo-nuclear-warfare on certain other parts of my body, and none of them have found anything wrong with me.  So I decided to up the ante.  I found A) a good doctor who B) actually asks a question on occasion.  And unlike the 8,327 other doctors who all took enough of my sacred blood out of me with their sharp, pointy needles and their rubber bands to keep all your precious Twilight characters quite youthful and angsty for sequels to come, this one said, “Hey, let’s have a look-see at your spine!”

See, my back is NOT awesome.  My back is trying to audition for Cirque De Soliel without the rest of me.  My back wants to be the next Hot Wheels Christmas season racetrack.  My back can bite me.  When I was in 4th grade and they did those spine checks that they do at school, well, they did at MY school, shut up, they threw around words like ‘scoliosis’ and ‘that’s not going to be fun later’.  The last time I had x-rays on my spine, 10 years ago, my chiropractor said, “Um, okay.  We’ll be seeing a LOT of you for the next rest of your life.”  And then I heard the sound of a very distinct “Cha-ching!”  I would have kept seeing him, because god knows he helped, but I never could get over the fact that every time I was within 20 feet of him, all I could think was SERIAL KILLER TOE SUCKING LIVER EATER.  Which is really not cool when he’s got your neck in his creepy hands.  Good thing I was 80 pounds overweight in the not-hot way or I know I’d be living in his ice box right now.  I don’t like to be cold, yo.  Or dead.

The point is that my the bones in my cervical spine (neck) curve the wrong way, that the middle of my spine is (or was, last time we checked) spinning around like a drunk ballerina, and 10 years ago, my lumbar vertebrae (lower spine) had condensed themselves down from many to one, just like the borg.  Awesome.

I spend a lot of time being fairly uncomfortable in various places.  Ibuprofen is my BFF.  It gets much worse when it’s that time of the month, which has sent me and a mess of doctors on an endometriosis goose-chase, with the end result being a very conclusive Maybe.  But today at 4:30, I get to harness all of my pent up bad girl bondage diggin’ aggression on one of these babies:

Yeah, that’s not hot.  That’s all the “Don’t you move a damn muscle” and “bossy people in uniform” without the snuggle and the smoke after.  I am actually completely nervous about the whole thing, which is odd only because I have had 2 full, long, glorious months to get used to the idea (God bless you, Canadian Health Care system.)  That?  Does not look fun.  That looks like less fun than driving through the Holland Tunnel, and the last time I drove through the Holland Tunnel, I spent the whole time throwing up in the paper bag I was supposed to be hyperventilating into.  And I doubt they’ll let me take pictures, which means it won’t even be fun for you.

Wanna know what totally does rock about it?  That my husband about did a cartwheel when I told him this was happening, not because his wife might finally be able to shut the fuck up already with her whining find out why she hurts all the time, but because he thought for one fleeting moment that they’d make me remove my nosering that I’ve never taken out, and don’t even know how to, before they put me in that big, sci-fi nightmare, living casket thing.

And he was SO wrong.  Haha, sucka.