I came home for the weekend again.
The food was so good last weekend, that I just couldn't help myself but make the drive from Mesa to Taylor after work last night.
Also, I had a four day weekend coming, and right now I'm trying to sidetrack my brain so it doesn't spend all of its days (and, more importantly, nights) obsessing about my next PET.
14 days from today, I'll have the results. (This is my new mantra.)
I so hate this end of the scan loop. The first eight to ten weeks after a scan, I rest easy. I know the results of my last scan, and I know there's nothing I can do about what may be coming. I can (for the most part) totally forget about the fact that my body's grown four tumors in the last two years and I can proceed with life as usual. But the second I get that call from scheduling, I go into a bit of a tailspin. And this time, that call came four weeks before they could actually get me in.
Enter the month of February. AKA: The month of little to no sound sleep and lots of wondering if my pants don't fit because I ate too much fudge at Christmas, or if something more sinister is at play. So then I eat more candy, because ... well ... my pants already don't fit, so what do I have to lose?
Seems like a perfect justification for coming home. Four days off. People to talk to. Bacon in the fridge and all I have to do is utter the words "ice cream" and Dad's all over it. Avocados and extra sharp cheese with a side of eggs for dinner. A multitude of fiberlicious muffins in the freezer. It's basically heaven here.
I was talking to my mom today, as we were going through a box of my grammy's things, and I jokingly said "Well, you know... I could always come back next weekend." She smiled from ear to ear, and exclaimed, "You could!"
Gosh, I hope they buy more avocados and bacon after I leave. I'd hate for them to be out of the good stuff the next time I decide to run away for a weekend.