Saluting Spunk

Mama J has an MRI scheduled for this morning. She's nervous. She woke up with knots in her belly. The long tube frightens her. The lack of space. The anonymity. Will they forget she's in there? Will they fail to recognize that she is a living, breathing 73 year old clown? When I checked on her this morning, she was preparing - curlers in her hair, coffee (without milk, because she doesn't want to pass wind in the tube, and milk gives her the f*rts - 'be smaht, don't faht'). And "look," she said. "I prepared last night."

"They'll know who you are," I said.
"Hey listen," she said. "When they scheduled this, they said the earliest appointment was July 21. 'I don't think I'll live that long,' I told her. 'Oh, she said, and looked very sad. let me go check....' then she came back and said, 'We could do June 24...'"
Mama J finds this twisted bit of scheduling manipulation uproariously funny. But she still feels nervous. She thinks she might take the whole calming pill, not just half like a friend told her to.
And me, I think she'll get through it all and a host of technicians will be talking about a crazy 73 year old clown who made their day. Mine, too.