B Day...no, not my Birthday...

Biopsy Day:  It's noon and I am higher than a cat's ass, dancing in the kitchen as Mr B badly sings a rendition of...   ???   ....  Oh hell,  I can't even remember.  But it was groovy.  And I didn't want it to stop...  I can see why folks might be trolling street corners looking for a hit of this...  The doctor has given me a Valium to knock back my nerves a notch before harpooning my boob with a giant forked needle (this is what my brain is telling me-not the doctor). 

And FYI-I am not afraid of cancer.  I am terrified of needles though.  I beg Mr B to not make me do this. I am totally comfortable with not knowing.  But he stoically insists that we deal with this now.  Which figures since it's unlikely his boob is cancerous, and it's ever so easy to sign someone else up for a giant needle through her boob.  So I grimly threaten him,  "Just wait until I have to make a decision about your balls!  Oh, yeah!  No mercy, mister!  I'm gonna REMEMBER THIS."  He just compassionately squeezes my knee and makes the appointment anyway.  "Bastard!..."  I acidly think.  And btw:  I hate pink.  I am not wearing pink.  No matter what...

Mr B, who is my keeper while I'm high off my ass, is taking his job seriously.  "Hey, I watched this show about a man with a 160 lb scrotum that he carries around in an upside down  hoodie, and his home health nurse, her name is Precious, comes by to wash it everyday..."  And he graphically goes into detail how Precious has to wash out the penis folds that are inches deep..  Gah!  I thought my job was bad...  And as planned, I am revolted and oddly amused and cannot stop thinking about a 160 lb scrotum... 

Finally, it's time to go, but I'm piddling around the house picking sh*t up per my usual, putting on more lip gloss.  "Goddammit! Get in the car!"  Mr B barks.  "...Please???"  he amends.  Looks like I'm not the only one nervous about boob harpooning...

Once there:  I have on my comfy pink (sigh...) slippers, yoga pants, and open in the front gown.  I take one more look in the mirror to check on my make-up.  "Damn!  That green eyeliner is really working for me,"  I think, before putting on my sleep mask which a wise friend has given me.  If you want to lead an ornery old mare out of a burning barn, you'd better put blinders on her...

A few hours later:  It is done.  I have survived.  I am bleary eyed and trussed up like a turkey with a cold pack on my boob, but my make-up still looks good and the green eyeliner is still working for me.  Triumph!

Once home:  The boybarians cautiously check on me, so I tell them that the doctor has special boob orders for them:  if/when the boob falls off, big kid is to pick it up and toss it to lil brother who will hold it up for a pic while his brother uploads the picture to Facebook.  Of course, everyone will LIKE the pic, and they will be boob heroes!  They are horrified. Naturally...

And y'all, for what it's worth, I am feeling strangely blessed by this lil life hiccup.  The support of my friends and family, well, it's enough to make even an ol' belligerent battle axe like me blink back a tear or two...  And honestly, at least I don't have a 160 lb scrotum to carry around in a hoodie.

Blessings to you ALL!