The Moonwalking Kitteh

When we discovered that BabyCat could moonwalk, I will admit that we wanted to see performance after performance. Fortunately for BabyCat's dignity and for all of our waistlines, however, we simply can't eat that much spaghetti, nor do we wish her to do so, although that was always her preferred reward.

It was a talent we discovered quite by accident, when—in a fit of ridiculousness and an attempt to lure BabyCat from the kitchen, where she was more-than-usually underfoot—I tossed her a piece of spaghetti: I am notoriously inept at throwing on target, and the spaghetti stuck to her fuzzy little head.

Hilarity then ensued. And we had to reproduce it for the camera:



Notes:

• We've since installed a floor, and it's very nice! I'm sure it would only enhance the moonwalking effect, but it's hard enough to keep clean as it is, ensconced in a house with three humans, two felines, and one canine. So believe it or not, BabyCat has not moonwalked in months, although she, FRISKitty, Clever (?) Dog, and Little Girl have all tested the sliding capabilities of the slick laminate surface, and repeatedly at that.
• We have established that neither FRISKitty, Clever (?) Dog, or any of us humans can come anywhere near BabyCat's stellar moonwalking capabilities. And no, we have no video proof of that ... you'll just have to take my word for it.

The Problem with Avoiding Problems

That I've been in therapy for over a year now came as an unpleasant realization. The very notion that I should be in therapy—for my "disordered eating" (but not, let's be clear, for "an eating disorder")—in the first place seems ridiculous enough: with my various and sundry neuroses, I should think that whatever formation of chaos my eating habits assume, it could not possibly be as wacky as that of my obsessive compulsions. Or my seasonal depression. Or even my intermittent insomnia. Or my stress-enhanced migraines!

Regardless, disordered eating is what won me a psychological referral, and that's what I continue to work on with my therapist, every third week or so. Her reactions to whatever nonsense I spew for an hour at a time alternately encourage and discourage me: she has an annoying ability to pin all sorts of my routine reactions (including excessive snacking) on my perfectionism, which makes me a little twitchy, since she is a behavioral specialist in the realm of eating disorders and/or disordered eating, which hardly seems an ideal pairing for a perfectionist!

(Of course, YOU see the irony, and even I can realize that she's right.)

Anyway, The Shrink continues her overall "you're on the right track" presentation, and that I've actually gained weight over the past year does not seem to faze her. I would have told her that I planned to change her blogname from "The Shrink" to "The Expand", but I really have no interest in letting her know about my blog. Besides, as the point of me spending time with her is to become aware of my inappropriate eating tendencies—and their accompanying weight gain—without the aid of scales or excessive personal beratement, I think it's pretty clear that I've made some serious progress when I can acknowledge it all on my blog ... whether The Shrink (see, I still have my hopes) knows about it or not.

It is all too plain how dependent I had become on numbers, and there's a lot of other secondary stuff I could easily latch right onto as well. The Shrink is fond of saying that "scales are for fishes", but during the recent slew of appointments that led me from my annual exam all the way to a "bad-hair" biopsy, I was duly weighed and measured at each and every one ... a ritual that not only cemented in my head the currently HIGH number that represents my weight, but which also led me to a more thorough understanding of how very deeply embedded in myself—and, to be fair (and punny), this society at large—a reliance on these numbers is.

In other words, it's not just me who feels a manufactured "need" to know my weight by its arbitrary—but standardized—digits. But that need is, for me, a beast of its own and feeding it drains me to the point where I stuff myself rather than let myself be made sad by it. And really, how silly is that? If I FEEL good, and can do the things I want to do, why should a number make any difference at all?

On paper, we all know that OF COURSE the number shouldn't matter, but what has happened to me—and to a certain number of other people (mostly women), I suspect—is that the number comes to hold a place OVER feeling. I have seriously been at a point where I don't KNOW how I feel, unless I stand on a scale and find out: lower-than-expected number = "I feel good!", higher-than-expected number = "I feel bad". It looks ludicrous in type, but it is absolutely, 100% true; the conversion of physical self-awareness into the devalued currency of "pounds" or "kilograms" is both insidious and frightening.

Coming back from this strange transposition of internal awareness and external definitions is more difficult than it might seem. I've apparently been practicing my ability to gauge how I feel against numbers on a scale since I was in my teens, and like a newly-discovered and deeply-burrowed tick, while awareness of my problem has made me determined to resolve it, it has such a damn tight grip that it ain't so easy as all that. Then, too, the same mindset that allows me to ingest far more than I require, saying, "Well, it's already fucked up; what's the difference now?" is what has me reasoning, "I know my number again; what's one more check?"

It's all or nothing with me, you see. I'm either "good" or I'm "bad", and I wasn't even raised Catholic!

All kidding aside, perfectionism does appear to be the root of—if not all—many evils for me. I don't know where that comes from, and to be honest, it doesn't matter ... maintaining the mindset is the problem, and whether it is a natural tendency or a learned one (or, like most things in life, a combination of both), it needs to be fixed. I need to practice being as gentle with myself as I am with my friends ... I expect perfection of no-one but myself, and that isn't fair to me in the slightest.

I used to think of perfectionism as a driver, and I suppose it can be that, too. But if it helped me to excel in academics, surely that benefit is heavily outweighed (I can't seem to help the weight analogies, can I? how disturbingly imperfect) by the other things it has done.

• It prevented me from seeking help with seasonal depression until I was very seriously depressed indeed. It sternly told me, "You should be able to fix this by yourself."
  
• It caused me such extreme tension when I started my new job that I threw out my back by sneezing. It drill-sergeant barked at me, "You HAVE to do this job PERFECTLY!"
  
• It kept me from seriously trying—and actually taught me to fear—meditation. It whispered, "You can't handle this; you are way too flighty. You don't stand a chance of doing this right."
  

There are more un-glittery facets to the dark side of perfectionism that I've experienced, but it's not necessary to enumerate them all (Look, Ma! No perfectionism! Or, at least, not too much of it.). The point is that I've been able to reveal enough of them to myself to see that harnessing the power of perfectionism, for me, is on some sort of rolling installment plan ... I keep paying, and paying, and paying for it. That I have to roll my eyes at myself repeatedly throughout the days now, as I become aware of more and more instances of "all-or-nothing" thinking seems like the long end of the problem stick, particularly if it helps me STOP the vicious cycle that has manifested in many more ways than just numbers on a scale.

Just as I'm not going to lie about how hard it is for me to evaluate how I feel without stepping on a scale to check—no matter how foolish that sounds—I'm also not going to hide how much I've disliked becoming more physically aware. There are plenty of painful physical aspects to life, as it turns out, and there are days when I can't see that it's better to be actually feeling them—really, truly feeling them—than feeling the silly, artificial substitute that I've linked to a certain set of digits.

I mean, really; we can certainly all agree that there's plenty of times at which reality simply isn't all it's cracked up to be!

But the problem with avoiding reality is that not only does one wind up with a whole new set of problems tied to the process of avoidance, but once those are (eventually) cleared away, one is still stuck with the problems that one was endeavoring to avoid in the first place. In other words, you can deal with your problems now, or you can manufacture whatever elaborate fantasy gets you through the day and wind up dealing with both the problems you had AND the problems you created through your attempts to cover up your problems.

(I hate that part.)

So here I am, continuing the painfully slow process of becoming more self-aware and self-accepting, feeling what is actually happening and attempting to deal with that instead of smothering it with whatever food is on hand, and oh yes, learning to stop punishing myself for not being perfect, because I'm not even a masochist, so going through THAT daily discouragement isn't even remotely fun. And honestly, I'm glad I turned to food instead of alcohol, because I can see how that addiction comes to pass, and I understand why people try to escape problems instead of solving them,

Solving them just takes such a damn long time.

Random Things That Didn't Suck This Week

Not unlike my list of random things that sucked, this here list of random things that didn't suck this week is—while sincere—meant to entertain. And if it entertains you, the reader, that's just great, but I have to say that my main priority here whilst I wait for my seasonal antidepressants to fully kick in is to entertain myself ... and to remind myself that rose-colored glasses aren't necessary to see good things all around, because those things are always there, if/when we look for them.

(Rose-colored glasses can, however, be a fun accessory and amusing addition to one's wardrobe repetoire.)

As the glasses crack may have served to illustrate, I am a member of the aforementioned "easily amused" (afore in this blog, that is; not in this entry). A future blog entry will further demonstrate the easy phenonmenon of my amusedness, wherein BabyCat will be featured IN VIDEO with a piece of spaghetti on her head (which probably sounds a bit random itself, but I think you'll understand when you see what strategic placement of spaghetti inspires her to do).

But because loading videos over my dinosaur of an Internet connection takes an over-abundance of precious time, let's just stick with my list for today.

(It's Random Things That Didn't Suck This Week, in case you've forgotten in the mini-digression I've just meandered through here.)

• The Mute Button on My Corporate Telephone
  
  Due to the crushing press of "urgent" e-mails that morning, I confess that I was paying only a modicum of attention to the telephone conference call. I was on the call more or less as an aural observer anyway, so I tried to put out a few electronic fires while more-or-less tuning in to the conversation in which a member of another company and a much-lauded contractor were discussing their experiences with a project that was a little like one that Corporate was currently undertaking.
  
  Because I was hammering away at my keyboard—and not being currently required to participate in said discussion—I had my phone's mute button engaged as the other company's representative enumerated the plus-column factors in the ongoing (monstrous-huge) project. And then, in reference to the contractor, whose full given name was Richard, THIS was said:
  
  "The biggest thing I've got is Dick."
  
  I have never been so thankful for a mute button in my life.



• I Don't Have to Make My Living as an Automotive Technician
  
  I was driving Little Girl's daddy to a wedding reception celebrating the recent union of one of his former coworkers—"former" because this individual happily happened to move up in the food chain in the expanse of time between which invitations to the nupitals were issued and the event itself, and "reception" because the wedding took place rather a long distance from our home, and Clever (?) Dog is not yet certified to go that long betwixt peeings—when Little Girl's daddy took it upon himself to explain to me what "geared low" meant.
  
  (What actually happened was that Little Girl's daddy made a passing comment about how the engines of a certain car manufacturer were "geared lower" than the engines of another manufacturer, and I stupidly asked what that meant.)
  
  It wasn't Little Girl's daddy's fault. I have a notoriously thick skull when it comes to understanding automotive systems, and it doesn't make sense, as my extensive background in the physical sciences should make such things easier for me to comprehend than not. And yet my brain utterly fails to latch on to even the meaning behind the terms, much less the way they work together.
  
  And so, after two bold—and unusually patient—forays into his explanation of "geared low", I shook my head and brought the conversation to an end with, "No, I just don't get it."
  
  I am ever so glad that I do not have to make a living as an automotive technician ... because I simply could not do it.



• The Sun Still Shines (However Occasionally)
  
  Because not only does the fact that the Sun does shine—albeit in an increasingly less visible way, as we proceed relentlessly into the dark and dreary time of year that precedes the hallowed Winter Solstice—keep us all alive and at some semblance of normal body temperature, but it also is so lovely when the Sun finally breaks through the cloud layers and dull grayness that obscure it ... it's like an unexpected gift, for no reason at all, and inspires me to rhapsodize prolixly on (and on and on) about its glory.
  
  And that makes me SO HAPPY!



• Some People Out There Still Care Enough to Serve
  
  Little Girl's school, on a ridiculously tight schedule, called for essays on local heroes recently: specifically, they called out veterans, fire fighters, police, and first responders. And it wasn't actually the school so much, since they were acting on behalf of the organizers of a benefit for these outstanding individuals, but because the essay was tied into a contest, Little Girl became aware of the benefit as well.
  
  She worked up what I thought was a very nicely well-written entry, though because she included a story that she had been inspired to write as she considered the role of local heroes (particularly, fire fighters), it wasn't, strictly speaking, an "essay". But she assured me that she'd cleared the notion with her teacher, and because I hadn't seen the piece until it was fully rendered—at 9:00 PM on the day before it was due—I did not protest too much, or too loudly.
  
  Whether it was form or content that mattered most, I cannot say, though that really doesn't matter. Little Girl did not win, but she was gracious and expressed interest in attending the benefit in any case—at a similarly late hour on the day of the event. I wish I could say I was gracious in return, though I was not particularly, but I did suck up my crankiness enough to concede that she and I could go, Little Girl's daddy being otherwise occupied with outdoor activities—yes, even in the dwindling available light—that evening.
  
  As it turned out, sitting in a room packed with at least 100 veterans, fire fighters, police, and first responders—a couple of state troopers even showed up, despite the fact that this was billed as a "local" event—is an immensely humbling experience. I know these people are around—somewhere out there—on a daily basis, or I would know that, if I spared a moment to consider the generalized hero dispersal among the rest of us ordinary mortals.
  
  But sitting next to a veteran and his wife, across from a man who had donated a chunk of money to the event that surpassed a half-paycheck for Little Girl's daddy and I, and just down the table from a pack of first responders, I was quite frankly awed at what these folks—whose vital roles I would never guess in passing them on the street—contribute to local communities on a daily basis. I mean, I'm pleased to donate blood when I can, but taking an hour out of my life every other month or so scarcely compares to military service, or being ready, willing, and able to drop whatever one is doing at whatever time a call for help comes in, or policing the town and outlying area on a daily basis.
  
  Yes, despite my initial reticence to spend my evening at "some banquet thingie"—as I described it when I shouted to Little Girl's daddy, across our lawn, to let him know where Little Girl and I were off to for the evening—I am so very grateful now to Little Girl for her driving interest, which got her and me there to have dinner with some of the people who we would rely on—not even knowing their names or faces—in the event of an emergency. They were RIGHT THERE, as they are right there whenever they are needed, and taking an evening to hear them called out by name and applaud their efforts most certainly did NOT suck.
  
  In fact, it was an honor and a privilege to be there, just once, for these local heroes, even if that is but the very least of the honor and privilege that they deserve.

And there you have it, my invisible dears. Things that not only didn't suck, but for which I was amused, appreciative, invigorated, and inspired in turn. Not exactly what the title may have implied, perhaps, but since these things were each sort of sneaky in how they presented themselves at the time, perhaps the title fits after all.

Of Bad Advice And Cat Puke

I am stretching, doing my "meditation", and making a feeble job of it as my mind darts from my muscles to the past, then to the future, and then chases its own tail—a joyless effort, since it is not of the canine persuasion. It is early enough in the day and late enough in the year to be fully dark, spotted with only the brightest of stars ... the faintest ones are weary, as am I, of trying to shine loudly enough to be visible.

Memory arrives first, unbidden and unwelcome. It enters without knocking as I count impatiently, feeling the stretch, but only on the fringe of wakefulness. My recollection is transparent with age, and weak with disuse, but its feeling is still stronger than my will to focus, and it brushes past me, cold and brittle, and sits on the edge of the couch, recounting itself to me on the floor.

I lose my own count as I remember.

It's like you're not listening, the voice whispers back. That I can no longer remember the words exactly does not dull their cutting edge. You're not even trying to get better.

And then the leap: I don't want to watch you do this to yourself.

Armed with knowledge and a dollop of self-confidence now, I dismiss the memory entirely now, refusing to indulge its mis-pointed finger further. It wisps away as I pass back to a new stretch, and a new set of numbers to define it.

Funny, how many people have thought they had the answer. Most of them—like the thin-memory embodiment I've just briefly entertained—have no personal experience with depression; while this does not render their opinions null and void, it does not give them any credence, either.

FRISKitty makes noises under the table next. Her pre-dawn snack is about to return on her, onto the floor. I call gently, my stretching relegated to second-best once more, but at least this time, I feel it is for a worthy cause. FRISKitty hates to make a mess, you see. Soon the unpleasant noise of retching is replaced with the soft whispers of her apology—she is pawing at non-existent sand, trying to cover her small explusion.

I cannot help but notice that FRISKitty takes much longer to apologize than many people have done when they deign to "help" me with my recurrent mental illness. It's not judgmentally that I say this now ... it's just so damn funny! So many worthless "cheer-ups" and empty "just get over its"—how could I have ever taken it seriously, when it was only vomited up by virtue of having been consumed too quickly, or because too much fuzz was impeding its digestive progress?

The fact that I'm tying this all together with a bow—and possibly the fact that I was visited by the Ghost of Depression Past this dark morning—are, of course, both manifestations of the earliest stages of my seasonal visitor's return. I am much better at seeing the signs now, which makes it much easier for me to do what I need to do to mitigate the circumstances that would otherwise drive me into the deeper darkness, the one which does not relent until Spring.

FRISKitty feels fine now. I expect the givers of likely sincere but nevertheless nonsensical advice are feeling fine, too. With medication and without apology, so am I.

Isolation

The situation was dire, and the request was immediate: pray. With each iteration as the e-mail spread, the call for prayer became more encompassing, as did the "To" list. By the time the message arrived in my Corporate Inbox, it was practically a prayer of its own, and reaching easily across teams and sectors alike.

The child was young, and the tumor inoperable. Prayer was—if not a strictly logical response—perhaps the most viable option. But after I thought about the child, and her family ... after I'd reflexively but fervently hoped for a positive outcome to this terrifying situation, I felt empty.

Having no belief in any sort of "higher power" exempted me from the sole activity that so many people seemed to feel would most benefit the stricken child and those who loved her.

And it made me wonder, if—as it seems from the swell of directives to prayer—those who do not have Corporate-comparable connections are at a disadvantage from those who do. Can prayer, simply by virtue of how many people are engaged in it, really affect the outcome of a situation? Is an isolated person less able to tap the power of prayer, and has prayer that accompanied someone who does not survive their own trial by disease been dismissed as inferior?

I know people who pray at the drop of the hat, and for things far less vital than deliverance from serious health concerns, such as favorable weather for enjoyable—but mundane—activities. That I cannot engage in it in either extreme, or anything in between, does not make it a less worthy activity, if it focuses and directs the petitioner's energies in some way that at least feels beneficial.

That I think I would not, even if I did believe, engage in any such specifically-directed prayer does not make me less empathetic or caring, either. I understand prayer in the objective sense as a means by which people reach out to that which they believe to be greater than themselves—to tap its strength, to grasp whatever sense they can in a senselessly cruel situation, or just to hold on to the notion that there is someone who might be able to do something about it, whether "it" be great or small.

What I cannot hope to understand is the interplay, if any, of prayer. Which are "answered" and which are "ignored" seems more random than chance itself would deem. And no "purpose under Heaven"—NONE—seems great enough to me when a child's whole existence hangs in the balance.

I cannot fathom suffering such as this as "necessary" to any sort of "higher power". With powers beyond human understanding, surely there is some other option—some non-suffering "way".

But while it is not about me (nor would I wish to make it so), this child for which prayers are so earnestly being sought now is but one of millions—MILLIONS—who needs ... no, who DESERVES ... consideration. Could the balance of our very lives really be so much about who we know? Or how—or IF—such people can pray, and to whom and for whom they do so?

Not being able to pray does not mean I can do nothing for a family in need—it does not mean that at all. That I spent a mere moment of surprised reaction to certain phrasing is utterly irrelevant, except, perhaps, in that it resulted in another lengthy blog post. I will certainly do what I am able to for those whose situations I am aware of, and absolutely wish for a positive outcome for them all. As would, I suspect, any reasonably human being, be they "believers" or not.

But that I cannot give them this thing they ask for above all other leaves me melancholic, despite myself. It is a small thing—a hopelessly minute wistfulness—and it cowers under the weight of knowledge that the family surrounding the stricken child must bear.

Absolutely Relative

A great objection of certain conservative religious elements today to their more liberal religious counterparts—or, say, to us a-religious freaks—is the "basis" of our morals.

"It is not possible," the traditionalists contend, "for you to have unshifting morals, if they do not emanate from an unshifting source."

(Although I've heard it put more bluntly than that, like this: "You can't HAVE morals without God!")

The issue, as it has been presented in the readings I've done on the subject, is termed "moral relativism", which is to say, that some seem to have it in their minds that without a literal belief in a personal God, morals shift willy-nilly on the capricious flightiness of day-to-day human desires and general yearnings.

Right, like some day I will just wake up and smoothly rationalize my way down from "because I don't believe in God" to "it's okay to go road-rage postal on the highway".

Now. I make light of the notion—because it really does sound THAT silly to me—but those who are God-based in their morals and who see moral relativism as a serious threat absolutely do believe that there is nothing on which the rest of us can hinge our morals or ethics, and that they—ONLY THEY—are firm and steadfast, with morals that do not change because they have come down from God Himself.

The problem is that we all work within a framework in which our understanding of His will for us and His wishes for our behavior are based off of the understandings and words and translations of others. We have—not a single, blessed one of us—spoken directly to the Lord, and had Him respond directly to us. We may pray for "right" understanding, we may study what we believe to be His Word, but we are still working indirectly, with but poor human intellect that cannot possibly grasp the fullness of something so big as GOD.

We simply do not have a clue, much less an unshifting, universal moral code by which we can all live in perfect, resonating harmony, and this is true regardless of which version of the Bible we adhere to—or not.

It is easy to stand beside those who think as you do and say, simple, "We're right." But there is no basis for this stance other than wishful thinking. Further, it is dangerous to hold this claim, because it cushions us within our own self-righteousness, which—even I can see—as a barrier to any potential greater righteousness. Only from the position that we may be utterly wrong can we seek a true understanding of another point of view, and only from such honest searching can we come to connect with other people ... other children of God, if you like.

I contend that anyone who believes that his or her morals are "unshifting" is less committed to their beliefs than they are to a severe and abiding loathing of change. And while I sympathize—oh, how I sympathize ... I, who can scarcely stomach a relatively generous three-day notice to a change in my weekend plans (and a GOOD change, at that)—it is not realistic to think that there will never be a morally-appropriate need for change.

Consider the Constitution of the United States, a well-considered, -crafted, and -intentioned document if there ever was one. But its failure to consider African-Americans as fully human was not only an abysmal moral failure, but one that absolutely demanded correction.

Certainly I am not about to compare religious texts directly to the Constitution, but the fact remains that if we do not consider the words that we cling to—really consider them, and continue to reflect upon them, actively seeking the thoughts and opinions of others and challenging our perceptions by viewing them from a larger point of view than how we saw them yesterday, or a year ago, or a decade ago—we do lose the meaning behind the words. If we do not actively engage our minds, we do not learn.

And there is always ... ALWAYS ... more to learn.

On one point, I will directly compare holy texts—and their "unchanging" words (presuming, of course, one is reading First Edition holy texts in their respective, originating languages—and all other literature, and that is that while we may all be able to agree at the words that are printed upon the page, we cannot and will not reach a single, variation-free understanding of those words. This is simply because we interpret everything we read, everything we hear, and everything we experience. It is an inherent component of our individual humanity, and, as such, comes to us from God—if you believe in God.

But in His image or not, we comprehend only as much as we know, and if we stop looking about, we know no more today than we did yesterday. Not being omniscient ourselves, we have a heavy obligation to strive for more and more knowledge—to seek to understand without ceasing. To not assume that we KNOW, as God surely must, regardless of what we think we know.

For while God, being God, must of course be absolute, so too must all moral understanding outside His own be simply—and absolutely—relative.

The Bad Hair Day (Part Four of Four)

The Exotic Neurotic, waiting for me in the waiting-room-between-worlds—not the front waiting room, but the one that divided the mammogram rooms and the biopsy rooms—was all poise and reassurance when the technician dropped me off, on her way to pick up the gauze pads and exit literature that would be all I would receive for my trial by needle. I wish I could say I snarkily envisioned a t-shirt, something to the effect of: "My Boob Went to StereotacticNeedleBiopsyLand, and All I Got Was This Lousy Packet of Blood-Sponges", but actually, all I did was ooze into the chair next to The Exotic Neurotic and whisper, "It was really pretty awful."

The Exotic Neurotic, bless her careful-planning heart, extracted a chunk of dark chocolate from her purse and pressed it into my hand.

"Would you get my purse out of the locker?" I asked, downing the chocolate immediately (for medicinal purposes, of course).

Thus, I was armed with a handful of ibuprofen AND my Holy Grail of Imitrex, which I ingested in one fell swoop with the bottled water that the technician also procured. Or maybe it was the non-midget nurse ... things were appreciably fuzzy by now, as adrenaline began to wear off and the two-day impending wait for results reasserted itself.

I would like to state that, following my folly of failing to treat my migraine and my rather extreme reaction to the biopsy procedure itself—which, really, while it was nowhere near as easy as I had presumed, was still, thankfully, a far cry from having a full-on, scalpel-wielding, knock-you-out type of biopsy surgery—but, again, I lacked the requisite not-like-me identity to take the mature/high road. The substantial pain of the surgery that I did have, however, was more than enough to preoccupy me until Dr. Geek himself phoned to give me the news.

I know I held my breath as he painstakingly worked through the preliminaries, confirming my name, birthdate, and knowledge of the air-speed velocity of an unladen European swallow. Fortunately, he managed to complete the necessary verifications before I became light-headed, and therefore, I was able to understand him when he said, "It's Good News."

(I didn't retain all of it at the time, but the official report I received in the mail specified, "Pathology: Sclerosing adenosis; negative for atypical proliferative breast disease." If you follow the link, you'll note that it's not all butterflies and pixie dust, as research suggests that women with sclerosing adenosis "may have 1.5 times to twice as high a risk of developing breast cancer". So having that marker in there to identify the potential problem area is a plus, as it will make it that much easier to keep an eye on the area of concern. Still, a current diagnosis of "negative for atypical proliferative breast disease" is better than a poke in the eye at this point ... I'll take it!)

I was so excited to hear the Good News that I didn't even bother asking Dr. Geek Bearer of Glad Breast Tidings (I upgraded his blogname) about the bruising, though I did confess to "substantial discomfort" on pretty much any motion whatsoever. Dr. Bearer of Glad Breast Tidings seemed surprised that I would characterize my discomfort as "substantial", but hey, call me crazy—anything that wakes me up from sleep wins that award in my book (anything that keeps me from sleeping outright is held to the highest standard of pain comparison: unmedicated labor and delivery). He cautioned me to contact him again if the situation did not improve within a few days.

Anyway, about the bruising: I'd been warned when I left Breast Care Central that I could expect "significant" bruising—another "s" word; how droll—and therefore, I'd been prepared to see some majorly nasty discoloration when I removed the pressure bandage. Which I did, only about 12 hours after I was told that I could do so.

Imagine my surprise to see nothing—NOTHING AT ALL—other than the tiny, iron-shaped divot that I'd also been cautioned to expect. It was really so fascinating that I hurried to show Little Girl's daddy, who seemed equally unimpressed, although he was not too eager to examine the mark more closely, having heard the whole gory tale of its origin and having not enjoyed a moment of it.

But if I thought the lack of bruising was interesting, I can only describe the massive, overnight development of all shades of bruise-blossom coloration that erupted while I fitfully slept as appalling.

"Holy shit!" I exclaimed, glad I'd locked the bathroom door—I hadn't yet informed Little Girl of the biopsy, determining that I would wait to tell her until after I had received the results of the test and would hate to have her walk in on such a "significant" sight.

As shocking as the sight was, going from zero to sixty in the wee, dark hours, it did provide some vindication for the notable soreness, and the fright I'd taken during the procedure itself. While certainly mild in comparison to other surgeries, this biopsy had very clearly been traumatic to my flesh, which it had disturbed, displaced, and discolored. In a way, it was good to see bruising.

In another way, it was not really good at all.

The bruising, impressive as it was in its initial flare-up, faded almost entirely within a week, and the mark of the tiny iron evolved from unremarkable, to raised and dark-scabbed, to sunken and almost embarrassed in its dull redness in the same time. Within a month, the iron morphed into a poor excuse for an oval, and is roughly centered on a fingernail-sized, triangular area around it—this triangle, with its blind eye, is slightly raised and feels somewhat harder than it used to be to the touch, but perhaps this, too, will ease eventually.

The important thing is, of course, that my breast's "bad hair day" did turn out to be, as hoped, a minor imperfection and not the start of something malignant—which is hard enough to say, much less contemplate—at least, not yet, and I will also have three extra mammograms of the architectural distortion over the next 18 months just in case.

Compared to the ending that this four-part tale might have had, I can only say that I don't mind in the slightest to be exposing my breast's bad hair day to additional mammogram technicians, or indeed, even to the Internets.




(You're welcome for that visual—rich dark humor with a side of low-fat ridiculousness.)

Architecturally distorted or not, I'm glad to have my imperfect old boobs. They—and I—are absolutely worth taking care of (and celebrating!) and so are you and yours*.


*Men, too, please take note: an uncle of mine is a breast cancer survivor. It is NOT a gender-specific disease. Hug a boob (or two) that you love today! With owner permission, of course.

The Bad Hair Day (Part Three of Four)

While I can agree, as I was told in the planning stages of my biopsy, that a stereotactic needle biopsy is a fairly quick procedure, I can also attest to the fact that it is "fairly" uncomfortable—yes, despite the awesomely-numbing local anesthetic. Looking back, I am sure that my pounding migraine—for it seemed to spike in its attack the moment I laid down on the table—contributed significantly to my discomfort, but it also wasn't long before my left arm, which I'd been instructed to rest at an angle, up near my face, was shooting flares of its own numbness. Likewise, my ribs—bordering the unpadded hole—were clamoring for relief, and my neck, too, was protesting loudly.

Between the voices of discomfort in my head and the occasional whirring of the machinery responsible for boring a hole into my now-oblivious breast tissue, I did hear intermittent conversations between Dr. Geek and the technician—who, again, I will praise for her strategic hand-holding, as well as for her regular inquiries as to whether I was "doing okay". But what I could hear of the exchanges between the technician and the good doctor were NOT comforting—not comforting at all.

"Well, that's interesting!" I heard at one point, from Dr. Geek himself.

(This turned out to be a comment regarding the machinery itself—in particular, a noise that the machinery was making. I would have appreciated knowing that, being all focused on the ACTUAL TISSUE OF MY BREAST and all. However, in retrospect, knowing that the boob drill is making an unusual noise as it burrows into my very flesh ... not all that comforting, either.)

"Do you want to leave a second marker?" was another charming snippet that I noted.

(This remark came from the technician, following what I thought—and so hoped!—was one of the final steps of the procedure. It was amazingly difficult to hear over the pounding migraine monster nestled directly behind my eyeballs.)

So although the procedure itself was mercifully brief—that is, the plunging of the needle to suck out a sample of the architecturally distorted area of my otherwise lovely, 30-something boob (what? no one is born with 'em, you know! you gotta grow these things yourself! unless you're Denise Richards)—the surrounding activities such as the numbing, the review of the occasional X-rays that assured that the attack was on target, the warming up of machinery, and—for all I know, facing a blank wall away from the rest of the characters in this disturbing play—the sacrificing of chickens takes time ... a lot of time.

Still, I lay there, not moving except to breathe, and not breathing very well, given my awkward placement, bundle of nerves, and coherent-thought-distorting migraine. And while Dr. Geek was out of the room, reviewing the tissue he'd expertly extracted from my sensation-free bosom, I suddenly realized that I was periously close to tossing my cookies.

"I feel sick," I announced weakly, embarrassed to have to ask for assistance when I should have known damn well to take myself an Imitrex before getting into this situation. The reaction to my tiny voice in the odd stillness of the room was instantaneous.

"You feel sick?" someone repeated, but they did not bother to wait for verification.

The relative quiet of the room was suddenly charged with the welcome sounds of action. While I was quickly admonished to remain still (not that I'd been doing anything else, other than starting to feel like I was going to hurl and/or pass out), my half-formed request for cool air was swiftly met with a strategically placed fan. I suggested, too, that the robe that was partially covering my back be moved, and lo, this, too, was done. Then, what to my wondering eyes should appear—between the edge of the table and the implacable blankness that I'd been eyeball-to-wall with for however ridiculously long this process had thus far taken, but a miniature woman, only just barely able to meet my gaze over the table.

Ohmygoodness! I thought, distracted from imminent puking by the sight before me. She's a midget!

The midget reached up with her hand and patted my arm—the one that the technician couldn't reach from the "business" side of the table—and my migraine-induced nausea reasserted itself.

"Could I have a cold cloth for my forehead?" I said, weakly explaining the migraine.

"Of course!"

Quickly, the midget nurse granted my wish, and despite the aching pins-and-needles of my arm, I was glad to have placed it where I could hold the cloth, and move its comforting coolth around my aching forehead. The cloth was exceptionally damp, having just been soaked in the sink in the far corner of the room—I'd heard the rush of water when the midget had moved out of my sight—but I noticed it only as a simple fact, as one might note rain after a long drought.

The midget remained comfortingly near, offering encouraging words and placating phrases. When I offered a pathetic, "I'm sorry," hers was the denial I heard most clearly, though I recognized the technician's voice on the other side of the room, too. I was assured that I was doing very well, despite my nausea, and asked whether I was feeling better.

"Yes," I said, and it wasn't even a polite lie, even though I knew that a truly better feeling was only going to occur when I was allowed OFF of this medical torture-table and into my purse, where my Imitrex awaited patiently, snug in its secure, individual packaging.

Eventually, Dr. Geek returned, and was apprised of the turn of events—aka, the turn of my stomach.

"We've got what we need," he said, making an admission that would have pained my unbeloved dental tormentor, The Bipolar Butcher, and instantly re-awarding him heroic status in my book. "I'll just finish up here."

The midget nurse patted my arm to get my attention, and I sloshed the still-cool cloth out of my eyes—which I had enough presence of mind to realize must resemble a raccoon's by now, by virtue of un-waterproof mascara—and met hers. She then explained to me that after the doctor had completed his efforts, she would be applying pressure to my much-abused breast for a full ten minutes before I would be allowed to sit up. This was quite alright with me, as I was in complete favor of anything that would further the END of the ordeal. The midget then disappeared, never once giving a hint of discomfort at my damp and black-eyed appearance.

As far as pressure goes, I can tell you most definitively that that of a midget nurse is vastly preferable to that of a machine drilling tunnels into one's delicate flesh. Time warps notwithstanding—because ten minutes would have passed much more quickly during sex with Steve McQueen (for a doubly time-bending example)—it wasn't too awful long before I was permitted to turn over onto my back. However, I was in no doubt whatsoever, despite the lack of a clock in my limited range of visibility, that ten minutes had completely elapsed before my injury was pressure-bandaged into submission and I was allowed to sit up.

Three things happened at this point—well, actually, before this point, if you MUST be technical about it, as I must. First, when I was in the process of gingerly rolling over, my maneuverings were such that I got a view STRAIGHT DOWN into the hole in which the procedure had taken place. And in this hole, I was wretchedly disturbed to see rather a significant quantity of blood—and, not to put to fine a point on it, but imagine seeing this sight with nausea, worry, and a marauding migraine. Blood, okay, to be expected, but the SPATTER? That was really quite too much, and I admit to groaning and likely turning whiter than I even am normally.

I was glad to be eased onto my back at that point—not that the midget nurse's unabating pressure on my breast would have permitted me to go anywhere BUT onto my back.

Second, while the midget offered me a chance to see the point of entry of the architectural-distortion-seeking drill on my breast before she put the pressure bandage on it, I absolutely and completely denied interest in seeing the wound. If you do not understand why, I suggest you re-read the two paragraphs immediately preceding this one.

"Okay," she said, apparently not unaccustomed to such a reaction, "but you should know what it looks like: it's a little iron shape." (To further elaborate on my continued sick-feeling, I was not even intrigued by this comment, which would later prove to be an incredibly accurate description.)

Third, at some point between rolling over and sitting up, I was quite surprised to discover that my midget nurse—who now held the record for the longest non-fun-contact with my breast—wasn't a midget at all. True to my pre-surgery speculation with The ListMaker, the hole-y bed upon which I'd lain HAD been raised from its initial, normal-bed level to somewhere rather surprisingly high, and Dr. Geek and his minions had then proceeded to operate on me not unlike automotive technicians on the underbelly of a car.

Unlike an automotive lift, however, the surgical bed had been raised imperceptibly and soundlessly—or, at least, slowly enough to go unnoticed by a migraine-ridden worrywart, and quietly enough to be unheard by the same underneath the grating noises of drilling machinery and the tantalizing tidbits of eavesdrop-acquired conversation. And not hearing, seeing, OR feeling the lift, I'd quite frankly forgotten all about even its possibility, right up until I saw that the midget nurse, well, wasn't!

I was so surprised to see that she was not really of Little-Person proportions, I'm surprised I didn't flat-out say so.

Although my migraine was still viciously throttling my fragile synapses, my breast—now snugly pressurized by a bandage that was nearly as large as the breast itself—remained comfortably numb. I relinquished my hair-deflating and makeup-eroding cold compress, which was by now lukewarm, anyway, and was assisted back into my robe.

It was at this point, by virtue of my ability to sit unassisted and without undue wavering, that I was permitted—under the close and watchful guard of the non-midget nurse and the tree-like technician—to stand, and then, finally, leave the biopsy area.

The Bad Hair Day (Part Two of Four)

I don't think I'm the only one who has a personal prohibition against considering myself ordinary. I mean, in my (rare) moments of clarity, I totally see it, but I—like most other people I know—carry over from childhood a certain amount of misplaced faith in the notion that even if I am not, in fact, the center of the universe, well, I really SHOULD be.

This is the sort of ludicrous idea that allows people to hope that they will win the (monetary) lottery, and—ironically enough—it is also the same ridiculousness that sways us into the cold, clammy grasp of The Dark Side when it comes to medical test results ... here, too, we are brought back to that universal-centrist world wherein All The Shit That Happens (be it Good Shit or Bad Shit) Happens To US.

But, really, even if we've stacked the odds against ourselves through poor self-care or other risk factors, basic chances are still firmly planted in the fertile soil of reality. That our imaginations are so very prolific is impressive, of course, but nevertheless, such conceit is not capable of reversing the laws of nature, even temporarily, on its own. The test, "just to make sure", is still being ordered as a precaution, not as a foregone conclusion, and it would be perfectly reasonable to expect the results of said test to be in our favor—far more logical to conclude this, in fact, than that we are in any way, shape, or form capable surpassing millions just like us to win millions of dollars.

I fall into the typical pattern of averageness when I say very bluntly that I absolutely—beyond even the tiniest little foreshadowing of doubt—expected my test to return malignant results. In short, the week between my biopsy-scheduling and the biopsy itself was a very long week indeed.

However, time has a predictable way of rolling along regardless of what we anticipate or dread out along its hazy horizon, and so it did during this particular week as well, and soon there I was—The Exotic Neurotic supportively with me again—back in Breast Care Central (at least there's a local branch) and also pretty well terrified. Because I was rambling along about nothing at all, and despite the fact that I do that here in BlogWorld, I rarely do so in the "real" world.

Unless I'm freaking the hell out.

Anyway, after a lengthy waiting period, I was whisked away to a mammogram room, and was told by the bulky technician therein that I would be sitting down for these images. Which was fine and good, and modestly preferable to standing, though a strict and high standard of posture was enforced by the upward pull of the device.

We played one traditional—except for the sitting-down part—round of mammography, and then things got decidedly more awkward. Because after the second, very-carefully situated scan, the technician got her shot and then left me in the vise-like grip of the mammogram machine.

Having been preoccupied with making an effort at humor and keeping myself from appearing as the totally nervous wreck that I really was, I had managed to miss the importance of this little episode. And although I had confidence that time had not ACTUALLY stopped, and the technician WOULD return in relatively short order, I was simultaneously assaulted by panic, caught without a clue as to which button would release the machine's death grip on such a delicate part of my anatomy AND not knowing just when the damn door would reopen to herald the return of the technician.

Oh no she di'nt. OH YES SHE DID. She left me alone with my favorite breast in a clamp!

The perfectly logical explanation for this time-warped duration of unpleasantness was this: in order to figure out where to drill into the tissue to obtain the sample from the area of concern, the mammogram is employed, the technician must obtain a hard-copy of the image, and then the technician must utilize the numbered markings along the edges of the cut-out in the upper portion of the mammogram's clamp to mark the site at which to plumb for tissue samples. Which she did, upon her eventual return, with a black marker to make the "X" that marked the spot.

(High-tech, I tell you.)

From this inauspicious beginning, I was again escorted into the waiting area, where I pulled aside my robe to show The Exotic Neurotic my "X", appearing around about one o'clock on my breast. She seemed not especially impressed with the technique that had resulted in its demarkation, and distracted me with my copy of Monica Seles's latest book, Getting a Grip: On My Body, My Mind, My Self, which I had purchased on a whim and then loaned to her. We were thus fairly pleasantly—though only on the surface—engaged until I was called in for the actual biopsy procedure.

The table, which had been previously described to me, appeared even less glamorous than it had sounded. But before I was dispatched to it, there were questions and forms for me to address.

Even given the seriousness of the situation, I found it difficult to pay attention. First of all, there was a glaring grammatical error in the very first paragraph of the very first form I was handed, and I disliked the way that the mapped drive on which the form was stored was printed at the bottom of the form as well. Still, to bring up the subject of why "you" was wrong in this context seemed like nitpicking, and not to mention, indicative of an attention-deficit-disordered mind. So I signed the form and nodded, and only asked one irreverent question when I was confronted with the shiny new information that a "marker" was going to be embedded in my breast at the site of the biopsy for future mammogrammic reference.

"Is that going to set off airport security?" I inquired, with all the serious aplomb of a dark-humored person who is stuck in an intensely uncomfortable situation.

Dr. Geek, who had returned for Q&A following my obedient—and bad-grammar-overlooking—sign-off of the requisite forms, seemed to take me quite seriously and produced a sample marker, which was embedded in a big chunk of clear plastic, for my edification. The marker itself was TINY. In fact, it was barely visible to my soon-to-be-bifocal-assisted gaze.

I murmured in what I hoped would be construed as a properly appreciative fashion, and returned the stylistic equivalent of a biopsy-headstone, which was really rather disgusting, in my opinion. Even if it WAS remarkably tiny.

(The short answer to my question, by the way, was "No." But I didn't get the short answer. I got to hold a paperweight!)

Eventually, it was time to proceed with the actual procedure. While the doctor scrubbed up and put on his costume—hey, if there's a mask involved, it fully qualifies as a costume in my mind—the technician helped me arrange myself on the scary table which had been the chief focus of my distractability throughout the paperwork—and paperweight—portion of the afternoon undelight. It was a barely-cushioned surface, with a gaping hole in the middle, around which the downward-inclining edging sank most ominously.

As I crawled up onto the table, I could see directly into the hole, because—far from being a light-sucking night-terror-esque void—it was filled with high-tech tools, and light. Yes, as The ListMaker and I had theorized, it looked like I was about to be hoisted up on the surgical equivalent of an autobody-shop's lift, and instead of having a utility light hooked to some portion of my soft underbelly, I would instead be illuminated by various fixtures embedded in the vicinity of the vertically-oriented mammogram device below the hole.

I tried very hard to objectify the experience, taking careful—but scientific, not emotional—note of my surroundings. Because, taken from a higher point of view (did you see what I did there? yes? a reference to the presumed lift of the gruesome surgical table? right, whatever, moving on ...), the surgical implements, processes, and methodologies involved here WERE very interesting. Imagine! The ability to zero in, without the need for a big-ass scapel or general anesthesia, on a tiny target, that, if it were to prove malignant, would surely be in the earliest stages of its attack, and would therefore be highly treatable. Really, it's marvelous to think about the screenings and options that are available today!

That everything was—in addition to being remotely fantastic—also personally terrifying was a bit of an impedance to relaxation, but once I was positioned by the technician on the table, with my poor, now-quite-suspicious breast (lightly) clamped yet again and sweating under the glare of the interrogation surgical lighting, I was pretty much freaked clean out of my mind.

I did have another distraction, you see ... I had a migraine brewing. Given the delays that had occurred in the process, I was now brutally conscious of the error of my ways, but since caffeine HAD been the sole representative on the "forbidden" list that morning, I had blamed the earlier twinges of pain on a simple lack of coffee. However, as I lay in awkwardly-placed wait on the table for the procedure to begin, I now fully realized the stupidity of my malformed reasoning. This was, in fact, a migraine, and it was NOT HAPPY about the stress, the lights, or, indeed, the lying-upon of the stomach.

I tried to breathe slowly and evenly, and moved not a muscle otherwise. It was not difficult to remember the imperative of remaining still, as the technician found it necessary to bray out at random intervals, "HOLD AS STILL AS YOU CAN!" Despite the fact that I WAS.

With my head turned at a neck-spasming angle, I could not see the doctor, the technician, or the assistant who were now assuming their assigned positions in this heinous little dance. Lying like a limbo pole that had been damaged by tornadic forces and repaired with duct tape and baling wire, I felt like a mere accessory to the performance, rather than the star attraction. Someone—the technician, I think—would occasionally take hold of my hand, and murmur reassurances regarding my holding-still non-activity—and would then remonstrate, "AND HOLD STILL!"—and then there would be more noise, or more medical chatter. And sometimes, of necessity, Dr. Geek would speak directly to me.

"Okay, I'm going to give you the local [anesthesia] now. There will be a little sting, but that should be all you feel. And I want to know if you feel anything else! On the count ..."

"Not a problem," I assured him, wryly but sincerely.

"What's that?"

"NOT A PROBLEM. I'LL LET YOU KNOW."

"Oh yes, good. On the count of three, then. Onnnnnnnnnnnnnne," he began, drawling out the number to an almost painfully slow pace, "twothree."

"SNEAKY!" I exclaimed, not without a little admiration for the devious technique. The technician and assistant laughed, and Dr. Geek launched into an impressive array of pseudo-shocked disclaimers that I would assign him such an accolade.

Unlike my experiences at the dentist, the numbing agent wielded by Dr. Geek was completely and thoroughly effective. As far as I was concerned, his erratically-paced count was entirely forgiven, and, when he was satisfied that all was in readiness, he moved forward with the next phase of the procedure.

The Bad Hair Day (Part One of Four)

Turning 40—which I did last November—affords the modern woman many exciting new experiences. I expect it entails a certain number of male-centric wonders as well, but not being of the XY persuasion myself, I don't plan to cover these in the gory detail with which I am about to discuss my first mammogram, and its decidedly unpleasant ancillary companions ... consider yourself warned.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Which is a little funny, considering I'm talking about BOOBS. And now I'm digressing. Ah, good, everything's pretty much back to normal (the sensitive amongst you can consider this foreshadowing, because I'd hate for anyone to endure the not-knowing in the same, lame-ass style in which I did, which was with little sleep and less maturity).

Anyway, so I scheduled my first mammogram and found it not at all that which it was hyped up to be. Sure, there was discomfort, but really, it was far more tolerable than childbirth, and that first horrific week of nursing, and hey, for that matter, it was more pleasant—although hardly something I would care to repeat, if not repeating it were an even vaguely logical option—than the Corporate interview process, so there you go. Not-so-bad mission accomplished, and I flushed out the afternoon's action with my annual exam AND the traditional checking of my defunct thyroid gland via a TSH blood test. As I cheerfully put it in a text message to The ListMaker, "have had vajayjay violated, breasts origami-manipulated, and vein punctured. you'd think at least they could throw in a kiss! or call me sweetheart."

(She wittily responded, "Not even dinner? You're easy!")

But a few days later, my breasts and I—particularly my right boob, as things turned out—were recalled for additional tests, which I scheduled at first opportunity ... one week after the first mammogram. The Exotic Neurotic kindly accompanied me, and plied me with celebrity tidbits and trash-talk—my preferred mindless indulgence at stressful times—which was very soothing. But eventually I had to face the machines again, and because it entailed X-rays, I had to go it alone.

Apparently, there was something different—potentially, but not absolutely sinister—about my right breast. This abnormality, I was told by the third person other than Little Girl's daddy to manhandle my breasts in, well, YEARS—the second person being the first mammogram technician that I had seen—could possibly resolve if it were studied at different angles and alignments. And thus my poor, shy mammary was mashed and squished and turned sideways in attempts to straighten out its multidunious, overlying layers.

It was a valiant effort, but it failed.

The next step brought yet another breast-fondler to the fore, and this was Dr. Geek himself. He was armed with that oh-so-special ultrasound goo and, of course, the associated ultrasound device, and he proceeded to ultrasound my boob within an inch of its delicate life. As he moved the sensor back and forth—and baaaaaaaaaack and forrrrrrrrrth across my breast—I craned my neck and watched the screen, but to my untrained—and strained—eyes, it was only so much fuzzy, blobular nothingness. I could not see The Exotic Neurotic's expression from where she was seated—ultrasounding being an audience-participation-permissible contact sport, unlike mammogramming—but I presume she couldn't make much of it, either. I decided not to ask for a copy of the video, and instead tried to think positive thoughts ... or negative ones, if they were to be in terms of my eventual results.

Dr. Geek was actually just the sort of doctor I would have chosen, if I had picked my mammography expert on any basis other than "Who's got an opening first? I'LL TAKE HIM!" Dry-humored and answering-questions-oriented, he was an information-seeker's dream doctor, and when he established that The Exotic Neurotic—for she asked more questions than I did, and good questions at that—and I were both of the scientific-minded persuasion, he got into a lot more technical detail. Which is not to say or even suggest that I absorbed each and every medical term or turn of phrase, because I did not ... but I got enough to really believe that 1) this guy knew what he was talking about, 2) this guy was a good choice to perform my biopsy.

Now. What's a six-letter word guaranteed to induce fear, loathing, and general specific anxiety? Right. B-I-O-P-S-Y. Gold star for you—you, my invisible friend, have actually been READING and not skimming. Probably. But how did I go from mammogram to X-ray to ultrasound to biopsy without first passing monitoring and, say, MRI?

I'm glad you asked, because I was going to tell you anyway.

As Dr. Geek explained—after he'd seen whatever it was (or wasn't) that he could see in the grainy, hazy mess of Ultrasound Vision—I had an "architectural distortion" in my breast. The good doctor compared this technicality to, basically, a bad hair day. That's right. My BREAST—which is not at all hirsute, thankyouverymuch (not that there's anything wrong with that!)—was having a "bad hair day".

Dr. Geek's point in evoking the "bad hair" day metaphor was that this sort of abnormality is a subtle one, and could well be nothing more than something an expert—himself, in the case of my breast, or The Exotic Neurotic, in the case of the hair (on my head)—would notice. Further, an architectural distortion could result from something as benign as dinging myself in the boob with a car door (not that I would ever be so clumsy as THAT ... oh yes, I would, and easily); past surgery, which I had never had, could also account for an architectural distortion.

Odd to find oneself rooting in favor of gracelessly knocking oneself upside of the boob!

So. Because, in addition to the aforementioned benign nothingness, an architectural distortion could also be the first sign of an invasive lobular cancer making inroads into my otherwise (basically) normal hooters—what? I'm getting bored of using "breast" and "boob" over and over, so I'm busting into slang and other metaphors—the doctor expressed a need to proceed with caution. In other words, considering my age and other factors, this here architectural distortion was probably nothing, but because of what it COULD be (if it wasn't nothing), further testing was warranted.

My options, as enumerated by Dr. Geek, were 1) 6-, 12-, and 24-month follow-up mammograms (which he would strongly suggest anyway, even if I chose door #2 or door #3), 2) an MRI (which might diagnosis the problem, or lack thereof, OR which might necessitate #3 anyway), or 3) a stereotactic needle biopsy.

"What would you recommend?" The Exotic Neurotic asked him bluntly.

"An MRI or a biopsy," Dr. Geek said without hesitation. "Both are equally good options."

At which point, in my head, the following argument instantly raged (profanity added for emphasis, although I pretty much swear at myself—in a loving way—all the time):

"An MRI? Are you kidding me? I AM CLAUSTROPHOBIC."

"They make drugs for that."

"I DON'T FUCKING CARE! I AM AWESOMELY CLAUSTROPHOBIC! BOW BEFORE ME! But, umm, I don't want to make my decision based on fear."

"Good luck with that, dumbass. This is some scary shit. I don't think a non-fear-based decision is a remote possibility here. Deal with it."

"Well, YOU heard him! I could end up going Hulk-crazy in an MRI and STILL need to get poked IN THE BOOB by a needle!"

"Dude. They're my little melons, too. No need to get snippy—I'm not all thrilled by any of this. How about we just pass on the whole thing?"

"NOW WHO'S THE DUMBASS?"

"Okay, okay."

*sychronized, metaphoric sigh*

"What's the gold-standard here?"

"I would say the biopsy. And not just because I'm less scared of it than the MRI. Probably."

"I think you're right. I'll ask before they decide we've lapsed into a coma. They're staring at us, you know."

And so, because I really didn't want to freak out either my potential surgeon or my escort through this undelightful experience, I briefly ran through my musings—minus the profanity—and inquired of The Exotic Neurotic as to what SHE would do.

"Biopsy."

Which made me feel instantly better, because The Exotic Neurotic has already endured the harrowing Narrow Tube of Insanely Loud Clicking, and thus knows personally that it is survivable—something that I was, however unreasonably, still doubting in the back of my demented little mind. My decision was made.

And, after my unsuspecting bosom was divested of its ultrasound-required coating and I was restored to outward-appearing normal, I scheduled my biopsy.

There was a bit of a problem in the scheduling; it seemed that the following week was rather unusually full, and therefore, it took the sweet receptionist rather a long time to locate a spot for me, in the week AFTER the following week. While she searched and clicked and did whatever it takes to schedule appointments these days, I grasped onto my gloom and tried to make a joke of it.

"Surgery," I pouted to The Exotic Neurotic. "And it's my favorite boob, too."

The Exotic Neurotic, who, after knowing me for the entirety of her life, is not unfamiliar with my random lapses of TMI, turned sharply. She didn't appear to know what to make of my statement.

"What? It's perkier than the other one! Don't you have a favorite?"

Still clearly taken aback, The Exotic Neurotic nevertheless answered with her trademark honesty. And more than a hint of her own dry humor.

"Well, yes. As a matter of fact, I do."

At this point, the receptionist snickered, which was just the shot in the arm I needed to actually make the appointment that would insert a needle deep within my (favorite) breast, and probe it for cancer.

Despite my best efforts, all I did after that was went home and cried.