A stable loser

Why yes, as a matter of fact, I have been drinking. And the drinks I had were at 3:30 this afternoon. I don't usually do this. I go weeks, even months at a time without touching alcohol at all, and when I do drink, I don't drink much. I buy cases of beer that are exceptional because the beers are six ounce bottles or cans, far less than the usual, and when I'm in a drink-every-day mode I have just one a day, with dinner.
So why did I drink one of those and then a vodka martini (i.e., a glass of vodka with olives) after it? Because I wanted to celebrate getting a clear scan, that's why. 
I get, you see, scans every three months to see whether or not the bone cancer has spread to my lungs, which will ensure a lingering and unpleasant death. The scan I got two days ago has been read (they do that fast these days) and I picked up the report and the disc (for the doctor) this afternoon. 
If you're not in a situation like mine, with a sarcoma (bone cancer) that required amputation of my right leg six months ago, you won't have had the feelings I do when this happens. The anxiety is so great that you almost wish the report would start out saying something, "Uh-oh. You're history, pal," and just get it over with. Instead, mine this time kept using the word "stable," which is good. I do have a nodule in a lung, which is bad, but that showed up awhile ago and if it remains stable I'm all right. For now. 

American medicine is advanced in many ways, but one way in which it isn't is when it comes to records and distribution of them. They still use fax machines! What is this, 1997? And they put the images on CDs, which many newer computers don't even have slots for. Part of what this means is that I have to drive six miles or so to pick up the report and disc. A nerve wracking drive which, if you're ever faced with would be better off done by someone else but I've always been alone (see blog's title) so I have to do it myself. I had to focus intently on the road ahead and calm my mind so I didn't do something dumb like blank on a traffic light. 
At the imaging facility, I had to wait five minutes for the clerk to bring me my stuff. As she approached, I studied her face. Nothing there. 

What would you do if handed a manila envelope with news that was tantamount to a thumbs up or thumbs down on your life expectancy? Open it right there, wait until you got to the car, or wait until you got home? My choice was to wait until I got home. I'd cleared the table of trivial stuff (the crossword puzzle in the newspaper, mail I hadn't opened yet) before leaving the house. When I got home, I put the envelope on the table and opened a beer and poured it into a glass. If it was bad news or good, a drink would be in order.
You know the next part. Good news. 
This means I'm good until the next scan, which will be in three months. I wonder if my seventy-five to twenty-five (bad to good) odds get better each time I get good results. I must remember to ask the doctor that when I see him on Thursday.
With my luck (always bad, throughout my life) I'll probably be diagnosed with cirrhosis next week.
Incidentally, two days after the last time I got a clean reading three months ago—this is only the second one—I slipped, fell, and broke my shoulder so badly that I'm still in pain. Alcohol had nothing to do with this. Stupidity did.