Cats in the Machine

It's about every three months that the doctor wants to see what the cancer is doing. He just can't resist the lure of technology, the clicking machines, the brightly colored scans, the heated phone calls with the radiologist. It's what he does.
He's an oncologist.
Today is my CT scan, also known as a cat scan. My father, my brother, my lover: none of them can resist a joke about cats and claws and purring and whatever.
It's a man thing.
Last night I started at nightfall with the first glass of barium sulfate suspension (2.1%w/v,2.0%w/w). It's like drinking a glass of someone else's spit. Then another glass at daybreak, another before leaving for the clinic, two more after checking in. I did better this time than the last one in October. I drank it all without once gagging.
Today there was even more excitement, a countywide power outage. The receptionist said I could reschedule my appointment. AND START THE SPITTLE DIET AGAIN?
No way.
Me and George sat it out, which sounds noble, but it wasn't because the power came on within about 20 minutes. Ten minutes later I was prone on the bench that slides into the whirling techno-donut, the nurse telling me she was just learning how to do the intraveneous thing with the iodine. They all leave the room and the machine says:
"Take a deep breath and hold it," and then "Breathe."
Then it's all over, except for the barium and iodine hitting my intestines like a marching band.
This is where the hard part starts: waiting. What did the cat see? Has the cancer grown? Has it miraculously disappeared? What does that mean? Should I go buy a cane? Some new hats? A burial plan?
Okay. What it means is that I have cancer.
One more time, almost just like the first time, I go through the grief, just as surprising as before:
Tears and snot out one end, barium suspension out the other.
I've told George that if I'm going to do chemo again, I'll need to go to Hawaii first.
Or we'll just go to Hawaii and fuck the chemo.