Am not on my date with Lemur Boy, obviously. He never arranged it. Messaged him last night saying “what time are we meeting tomorrow” and Never Heard Back.
Anyway: mustn’t grumble. Wrote a column about the date yesterday. Hopefully you’ve read it by now. So it’s OK. Definitely didn’t do or say anything to put him off. Either he has been kidnapped by aliens or lost his phone, or both. Maybe he has had to rush back to Madagascar. The red ruffed lemur’s family are in trouble and he’s sent Lemur Boy a message in code and he’s had to rescue them.
It’s 6.30pm and I can barely keep my eyes open so it’s for the best. Not that he could know that. He ought to have sent a message to cancel at least.
Lying on the table in the bone scan room, in Nuclear Medicine, I hear the bright white sections of the machine zoom down from the ceiling before I see them. They buzz and whirr around each other. They form an arch. Underneath it, the scanner clicks into place. As the enormous heavy scanner flies towards my face I flinch and gasp.
“Close your eyes,” the radiographer says (if that is what she is – I can’t see – have taken my glasses off).
“I have to look at the machine, so I remember it,” I say. “I’m writing a blog about dating after breast cancer treatment and…”
“Well I don’t want you to scare people away from bone scans,” she says. “It’s not going to hit your face. I know you can’t tell from that angle that it won’t smash you in the face, but it won’t.”
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s just that bit: when the machine flies at my face.” The machine hovers a few centimetres above my face, and then stops moving.
“It won’t get any closer,” she says. “Try not to move your head. After a few minutes it will be down to your shoulders, and then you can move your head if you need to.”
The scan is fine. I drift off to sleep a bit. There wasn’t time for my afternoon nap and I’m so tired.
“You can go now,” she says, after the scan has stopped.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’m sort of expecting it to be clear.”
“It would be nice if I could say that about everyone,” she says, “Did you have anything with you?”
“My shoes, my glasses…well,” I say, stepping into my silver fit-flops, “my bone scan was clear before, so I’m not expecting anything bad.”
“Let’s hope not,” she says.
“Is that everything then?” I say, putting my glasses on, looking towards the machine but now its sections have dissolved back into the walls and there’s nothing to see.
Whatever it is: the infection, the antibiotics, being radioactive – I’m unbelievably tired. Tinder and everything else will have to wait till tomorrow…