Scans

I wasn't going to mention that I haven't blogged in a while. You should have gotten the picture about my blogging habits by now. But the fact is I'm still feeling pretty rotten.  The shingles are gone, thank God, and the erbitux and the pimples I can deal with, but it’s the Thalomid I hate. It flattens you out and turns you into a zombie. I have to take the stuff until the second week of January.

On the bright side, I haven’t stopped working and we’re producing some of our best material ever.  Our movie, The Seventh Python, is headed to film festivals around the world-- so I’ll get to meet a lot more of you-- we’re producing a one-man comedy show that has its second preview on the Sunset Strip on Tuesday (no, I’m not the star), and Burt and I are finishing a pilot script for a hilarious new television series-- and starting to write the other episodes.

So life does go on.  And upward.

Today I go in for my third PT and CT scans to make sure all is still clear.

I have to do this every three months for the next two years, then every six months for the next five years.

The scans combine X-rays with sophisticated computer equipment to produce images of the inside of my body. A scanner is a large box with a tunnel in the center. They stick me on a narrow table and slide me inside. I’ve only got one problem with them: I'm claustrophobic.

So they give me drugs to relax and I've convinced them to put me in the tube head first instead of feet first, so when I get to the other end of the tunnel I can tilt my head back and see the ceiling.

What a pain in ass I am.

One more thing: I was supposed to get the results of the scans later today, but I won’t get them until Monday because my doctor is guesting on a television show.

Only in Hollywood.