Biopsy (for real)

So those of you who read my story yesterday entitled "Biopsy" probably got confused about halfway through.
There's a good reason for that: I mixed up a couple of days. THAT story was about the day I had my MRI, which was the one test I thought I could go by myself and handle. I did get through it, but it wasn't pretty. (The first story has been updated, including a picture of Riley for your viewing pleasure.) Mixing those days up of course made me wonder this morning if it was a sign of a brain tumor. 

Anyway. The BIOPSY was a whole different story. That was August 1st. That was the pocket picture day. That was the day I knew I had cancer. Well, I wasn't officially notified until the 2nd, but still, I knew.

Just the word biopsy. It's supposed to be "just" a shot to numb the area, and "just" a needle inserted to take out "just" a little tissue. JUST keep telling yourself that, Polly, I kept saying.

So the BDC is a small office. They had a TV on in the lobby. I think HGTV "Flip or Flop" was on and for a second I wondered if it was an episode I hadn't seen. Trying to calm myself to fill out the paperwork was a lost cause. My hands were shaking so badly even I had trouble reading my writing. Bob was sitting beside me, checking Facebook and drinking coffee. I wished I could just soak in his apparent serenity. And can I just ask: WHY must we fill out endless papers every single time? Aren't we past that now? Doesn't someone have to enter this into some digital file that exists? Hand me a keyboard.

My friend's daughter Mary, who I had never laid eyes on, came to the lobby to meet me. She hugged me and asked if I was doing okay. "I'm a wreck." I said. She nodded, understanding. Then I said how much I love her mom, Denise, and that I considered her my "work mom." It was a nice diversion for a second. Mary said she would try to get my results fast-tracked. 

The tech came to get me, and I told her, "I am letting you know, I am a mess. There will probably be tears." She was sweet and said that her only rule was to not make her cry. I couldn't make any promises. 

I was amazed looking around the building that it was designed to be like a spa. Cute changing rooms, gowns were like cute little jackets, coffee stations, soothing music and dimmed lights. The room where the biopsy took place was also spa-like. Artwork, tables, a large armoire (what the heck did they keep in there?), and two low-slung chairs startlingly upholstered in a leopard print. But the crowning touch was the table and the equipment in the middle of the room.

The nurse fired up the ultrasound and located the lump. Not tough to do since it is pretty obvious and large. I asked, "looks pretty bad doesn't it?" She said, "uh huh." She went to tell the radiologist we were ready. In a nice gesture, she covered up my exposed half with a towel. I appreciate a women who gets that this whole thing is pretty humiliating. 

Dr. Powell tried to make chit chat with me for a moment. Where do you live, I board my dog there, I ride my bike in that area, yadda yadda. After the anesthetic shot (which I am not going to lie it burned like hell), he said, "This is what it's going to sound like when I'm taking the tissue." CLICK! It was loud like a staple gun. A very un-medical sound. He said, "I'll warn you when it is coming so you don't flinch." Anyone who knows me knows what I said to him was absolute truth: "I cannot promise I won't flinch even with a warning." About three clicks in, I said, "How worried should I be?" He said, "Oh, about malignancy? This is most likely malignant." 

I gotta hand it to him for answering my question. 

Two more clicks and it was done. That was the biopsy. That was the day I knew I had cancer. Twenty-three days after I found the lump.