My expectations for medical tests have been lowered in recent months. Once upon a time, I would walk into the ultrasound room with an idea that the technician would turn on the machine, point her wand at me and exclaim, "Well, there's your problem!" and turn the monitor so I can clearly see a tiny demon hammering away at my gut with a pickaxe. He would peer over his shoulder at me and grin maliciously before taking a hefty swing.
"Wipe that smug grin off his face," I would announce, standing on the bed in my paper gown, shaking my fist at the monitor, "Vaporize the bastard!"
Too many times, though, the tech would prod me and gaze glumly at the monitor, clicking her mouse to bracket off bits of sludge from other bits of sludge, muttering to herself, "hmm...that could be...but I don't know..." like she was reading tea leaves. Any questions I asked would be answered with "You'll have to ask your doctor," or even a weary gesture toward the printed sign that scolded any patients who might expect answers from the technician.
Today, however, was different.
Ron the technician has a soft lamp set up in the lab, and a mobile of whales overhead, but I'm much more interested in that grainy gray sludge moving around on the monitor. He's prodding at me with the wand, when suddenly those beautiful words are spoken:
"Well, that's what's causing your problem. And it's a big 'un, too. Look at that!"
And I do, and yup, there it is. No demon, but...something. That's definitely a...thing.
"But what's it doing way over there?" adds Ron.
You got me there, Ron.