Here's Lookin' At Ya

I came home from work tonight to find my MRI slides relocated from their place in the dining room to the family room couch. My mom was holding one up to the sliding glass door, which faces west. As the end-of day light streamed in, she gazed at the slide she was holding.

"I can see your pituitary gland," she said. "It looks fine to me."

My mom can now expand her resume: doting mother, amazing grandmother, consistent dog walker, occasional chef, daily vacuum-er and board-certified radiologist.

Nevertheless, she made me feel better since I've been staring at that huge envelope of slides for two days now.

She shuffled through several more slides. "I have to show you something really interesting," she said. "OK," I replied, "but bear in mind that you have several thousand dollars worth of images in your hand and knowing how persnickety a-hole-ish Dr. C is, he's going to have a shit fit if there's even one slide that's out of order." "Yeah, but this is really funny," she said. "Call Ben in."

I acquiesced. "Ben, come in and see Mommy's brain pictures before dinner!" Just another normal night at the Thompson home.

Ben raced in. "Are you gonna show her the EYEBALLS?" he inquired. Obviously, my mom had already provided a lesson in Radiology 101 while I was at work.

Mom threw a sheet of film up on the slider. And there, in each image, were my eyeballs. Huge. Cartoon-like. I did a double-take. We all dissolved into laughter. I wished my sister could have been there. I couldn't decide if she would have laughed the hardest or shrieked the loudest. Nevertheless, it was one of those priceless family moments when levity overrules anxiety and everyone lets go. Even for the briefest moment.

"Let's see it again," Ben demanded. We admired my eyeballs for several minutes. My mom pointed out my nose. "You can't miss that ski slope nose." We debated the "bright" spots on the pituitary gland and the dark spots. She said it again: "Looks good to me."

Although I could easily Google MRI images pertaining to the pituitary gland and match up that information with my slides, I'm not going to. It's way more fun to laugh about my enormous eyeballs with Ben and to know, with absolute certainty, that the rest of the information will come in time and that it will be all be okay. Because it is, it always is.

Ben's class is studying the brain this week. He ran out of class to greet me yesterday with a brain - fashioned like a crown - and affixed to his head. Why is life so ironically weird sometimes?