Having the possibility of (ominous sound effects here please) BREAST CANCER (end ominous sound effects) become real gives me this really strange adreline surge but this same shock-rush makes me stupid.
So on Tuesday, as I'm sitting in the (cue in lacy flowers and soft caring music here) Breast Center (continue soft femine sound effects) having a long skinny needle repeatedly jabbed into my breast and armpit, I'm seriously buying that the radiologist is giving me good news when he says that because of this fine needle aspiration I may not have to come back for the more flesh violent core-needle biopsy. He tells me to call the next day after 4pm to find out.
"Not have to come back here!? Why that's great news!" I exclaim.
The radiologist clearly isn't sharing in my jubilation. I see this, recognize it, but I'm high as a kite and ain't coming down for anyone. I'm free associating and what keeps coming to mind is the GREAT epidural I had when my son Paul was born. He was an induced eleven pound baby that came without a single bit of discomfort or pain. I could even move -- wiggle my toes, move my legs. The anesthesiologist was on her way to her honeymoon. Wow. She was good.
Well the fine needle aspiration didn't hurt at all either. And honestly, dealing with death-threatening illness and giving birth taps into some very similar emotional highs.
Despite the high, I know, though, even before I leave the office, that not having to come back means that they find something definitive in the fine needle aspiration. They won't need to do a core biopsy because the evidence of those malevolent cells will have been found.
I know I have breast cancer.
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