Prepare for bratwurst.

The MRIs were…annoying. No one loves spending Sunday afternoon in a MRI coffin more than me. Top that off with two turkey basters full of ultrasound imaging gel squeezed up your butt and you’re in for a real treat.

The next Tuesday…it’s really our day, Dr. Fab (and 6,000 other doctors on his team that he squeezed into the room) wanted to send my biopsies for genetic matching.

This is the moment I felt like I was on the set of Gattaca with Ethan Hawke…you know the one. Genetic matching, eh? Whatever for - I’m the real me.

A couple of reasons for all this witchcraft. 1) Cancer wasn’t seen with the naked eye thru the colonoscopy. 2) The MRI results saw no cancer with the fancy schmancy imaging.

Now - this could mean 1 of 2 possibilities. The first and most probable is that the cancer is in such an early stage that it hasn’t moved beyond the cellular level. The second is that the biopsy was contaminated and the cancer isn’t mine. There’s a 1% chance for the latter, but Dr. Fab wants to cover all his bases.

Thanks for the false hope and the opportunity for me to be completely neurotic. I’ll put all my eggs in that basket.

While I wait for the inevitable - I’m going to see a couple of other surgeons in the city to make this a more democratic process and to educate myself. Maybe it will all be a waste of time? But - might as well hope for the best and prepare for bratwurst.

And always thanks to Scott for being my rock…and for not paying attention to autocorrect…