This morning (and we’re talking crack o’ dawn), I dragged myself, braless, to my excisional biopsy appointment. It involved a light sedation, another fine pair of no-slip socks, and a little bit of Sesame Street to get me through the waiting part. My favorite part is when my surgeon wrote her initials on my breast with a Sharpie so as not to forget which one was the one in question. By 9am, I was in the recovery room discussing painting living rooms and the Bronx Zoo with my nurse. I got graham crackers and coffee as they read me my list of DOs and DON’Ts, and I was on my way. It should take a week for the pathology to come back, but my surgeon said it didn’t look like much anyway.
I’ve rigged up a real nice ice situation with the hospital-issued refillable ice pack. I’ve got a loop tied at one end that I wear around my neck, while I sling the bag over my left breast, hands-free. It’s like a giant, very cold necklace. I’m not looking forward to bedtime tonight, however. I’m a stomach sleeper. It’s going to be awkward…
The Validated Hypochondriac 