The room is sterile, cold, and white, and all the nurses wear white, and speak in hushes, as they tap my forearm until the vein, annoyed, raises its hackles (so to speak) and they drive a 10-foot stake in ... oh alright, it's just an IV. But my arms are strapped down so they don't dangle off the narrow slide I'm balanced on; my head is held rigid in a plastic frame that, to make sure I don't wriggle at all, foam wedges are squeezed into (making it also impossible to hear their instructions); and then finally - the pièce de résistance for a claustrophobic person - they tape my eyes shut. Like a pizza into an oven, I'm shoved into the "Sensation 16" (which comically brings to mind a Woody Allen movie and the 'orgasmatron') which whirrs and rattles loudly for a few minutes - but not nearly as clamorous and intimidating as an MRI. At least your whole body doesn't have to go in, and within a few moments the attendants are back (in their calm white presence) sliding me out, flushing the IV, before poking me back in with the warning 'Here it goes'.

I can't see, but as the iodine contrast is injected I feel at first an irritation in my throat - like I've swallowed a handful of nails - and then fire: as if a paintbrush saturated with the color 'hot' is sweeping down my torso. My entire body flushes and radiates heat - and apparently a whole lot more: as really groovy images are captured that illustrate the questionable inner works of my brain (which looks to me like it's filled with a writhing mass of bait worms. Lovely.)

It turns into a long day, but I'm blessed with patience and calm (imagine that: 'Betsy' 'patience' and 'calm' all referred to in the same sentence) as I endure the four hours it takes to drive the 130 miles to Santa Barbara; as I perch in the waiting room after the tests to ensure I don't have a reaction to the iodine (with the IV feed dangling off my arm like a limp marionette); while I fidget for nearly three hours awaiting the neurosurgeon, who's detained at the hospital; and then make the mad dash to see if the neurologist will see me late (he does).

The bottom line is: the scans show no discernible difference (enlargement) which is fantastic: the best possible news. We discuss my symptoms, tweak some meds, discuss the future. More scans in six months; an MRI in nine months; another angiogram in a year; and somewhere in the not too too distant future, the placement of a stent in the main artery in the middle of my brain. Dr. Z shows me one - it looks like the bouncy spring that pops out of a Bic pen, and is made of gossamer, or angel hair, it's so light ... it floats in a plastic cube, and as I peer at it I wonder how the #&@$ this thing is going to get in my head ...

All the while I have known that regardless of how my day goes (unless they check me into Cottage again) I will be ending it at Sharon's home: embraced in a household full of enough love and joy to soften any blow. But instead our evening is a celebration.

I always have a great time with Sharon and have indulged myself with these plans ... In fact, I have been indulging myself a lot these days, and for someone whose first sentence was "I can do it myself!" I have certainly (finally) learned to ask for help, for companionship, and support ... and am having a grand ole time inviting/imposing/inflicting/injecting myself on a lot of family and friends. It feels pretty good to be surrounded by those you love (and vice versa).

I do believe the dark nights are over. I am feeling physically and emotionally well, and as for the next phase of life, I am not just experiencing it: I am LUNGING at it, with every ounce of energy I've got.