I've spent most of the afternoon and evening lying on the couch. I read for awhile, slept for awhile, then Bob came home with food, and I ate, and we watched Babylon 5, then I watched an old re-run of Nash Bridges, then I read some more.

I pretty much took the whole day off and let things go on around me.

My first appointment today was supposed to be for a mammogram at 11:00, but when we got to the hospital . . . oh wait. That wasn't where the day started.

It started with the sod people arriving. That's sod people as in people who lay sod, not as in people made of sod, or sod people as opposed to pod people. This huge long flatbed truck with rolls of sod drove up and parked in front of the house about a half hour before we were supposed to leave for the hospital, followed by a little old beat-up car, bearing the sod guys.

Bob went out and briefly told them what he wanted done, and we got in the van and headed for the hospital, leaving the sod to the experts.

So, I was supposed to have a mammogram at 11:00, but when I got to the radiology department, they told me the doctor had decided he didn't need more mammogram films, and for me to go straight to ultrasound. Who, of course, weren't expecting me until 1:00, but they were told to work me in as soon as possible, and we really didn't have to wait very long.

One fairly disconcerting part was that the radiologist was looking for the lump on the wrong side of my breast. He was concentrating on the outer part, and I figured, well, he knows what he's doing, and I kept my eyes shut rather than watch the screen, which, when I looked at it, sort of made me feel sick, but after he'd run the little wand over the outside of my breast for about fifteen minutes without, apparently, finding anything, I said, "Um, could I ask a question? You're looking on the outside of my breast, I thought the lump was over here," and indicated where the other doctor had found it on the first ultrasound.

The technician said "no, it's on the outside, I went over the mammograms with the doctor," and I said okay, but it was scaring me more and more, because of course to have a lump on the outside would seem to be much more serious, because of the possible involvement of more muscle tissue.

After a few minutes, he got up and went over to the phone and dialed a number, but didn't get a response; he then came back and squirted some more gel on the inside part of my left breast, and immediately found the lump. He didn't say anything then, but he did come back in later and tell me that I was right. I tend not to contradict people, usually, but obviously I'm going to be very careful about what they're doing to me in this case.

He took a bunch of pictures of what he saw, and made a big black X on the spot with a Magic Marker (now that he had found the right spot), then went to get the doctor, who I had never met before, nor had I ever heard his name. I'm sure that's not really overly strange, but it was a a little disconcerting, and I was glad over and over again that Bob was with me.

They let him sit in on the ultrasound, but the technician said that when they started the biopsy, he would have to leave. I wasn't very happy about that, but I'm sure they were afraid he would pass out or something, or get in the way. When the doctor came in, though, he said if Bob was sure he wouldn't faint, he was welcome to stay, and I was very glad. It helps immensely to have someone there to clutch, and I did a lot of clutching.

I didn't think the radiologist would be amenable to having his hand held--although he was certainly sympathetic enough, he wasn't exactly warm, I guess. Anyway, he had me sign a piece of paper that said I was aware of the risks of the procedure, which included infection, excessive bleeding and possible intrusion into the chest wall, which could result in a punctured lung. Bob and I kind of looked at each other at that, but didn't say anything until after he had left. I understand that they have to cover every eventuality, but we laughed a little about it, Bob miming the doctor slipping and falling on me, and plunging the needle in--something that I have no doubt had happened at some point, but would be fairly unlikely, I'm sure.

Then a nurse came in with a styrofoam cup of water and a big red pill--the antibiotics I need to take before any surgical procedure, because of my mitral valve prolapse--then they left us alone for a half hour or so while the antibiotics coursed through my system. The technician came in and asked if I was cold, and I was, so he brought me a blanket, and I laid there in the dark, under the warm blanket, holding Bob's hand, until the doctor came back.

He painted me with iodine and put a surgical drape over me, and at that point I pretty much closed my eyes. I would actually have liked earplugs, I think--Bob was there to follow what was going on and object if anything wierd happened, and it was making me feel queasy just hearing them talk about it. The doctor said, "There it is--you can look if you want," but I told him I wasn't going to look, thanks anyway, because I was afraid if I did, I would pass out. He asked if I really thought I was in danger of passing out, and I said, "Not if I don't look."

He did make me look at the needle, though--well, I suppose he didn't make me, but it would have been rude not to open my eyes while he was talking to me. He explained that it would make a clicking sound, and he demonstrated by pushing the plunger--it said "CLACK," which was, I guess, when it maybe grabbed a section by vacuum, maybe? I don't know. I didn't ask for details. He just wanted me to be aware that it was going to make a noise.

He numbed me up really well--it stung, but not too bad, and then he started. CLACK. I jumped the first time, and he asked if it had hurt, and I said no, I was just startled. I tried very hard not to jump again--he warned me each time he was going to press the plunger, and I tried not to breathe. Bob kept saying "Don't look," not that I had any intention of looking. I just squeezed his hand, and kept my eyes shut, and waited for the next CLACK.

He took three or four samples, maybe five; I can't remember, then he said he was finished and that he would have the results tomorrow if we would like to come back in and talk to him. He said that we could also phone, but we decided we'd like to hear the news face-to-face. I heard Bob telling someone on the phone later that at least if the news was bad and either of us fainted, we'd already be in a hospital . . .

They cleaned me up and pressed a gauze pad to my chest--that probably hurt as much as anything, whoever was doing it was really leaning into me--then the technician asked me to sit up and said he was going to wrap me with an Ace bandage. He had me put my hands above my head while he wound the bandage around me several times, pressing the gauze pad into my chest. Bob helped.

I felt like a mummy, and walked like one, too, I think. I could hardly breathe, but I knew it was necessary to keep pressure on it so it didn't bleed too much. I hobbled out to the curb and Bob left me there while he went to get the car and brought it around, then he took me home and installed me on the couch while he went out to start watering the sod and, later, went out to pick up his computer which had gone in for repair (and which came back worse off than it had been before--he's already unhooked it and put it back in the van to return tomorrow), and to pick up sandwiches for dinner.

I'm learning all kinds of things throughout this debacle, a couple of which occurred to me today. I was lying there on the table, breasts exposed, and it didn't feel weird at all. It isn't sexual, it's just like another part of your body when you're in that kind of situation. If I pulled the hospital gown over me, it wasn't because of any feeling of modesty on my part, but a wish not to offend anyone else who might walk in.

And then, going along with that, the feeling of helplessness and powerlessness--lying there at the mercy of the medical personnel and the system, having to trust that they know what they're doing and that they know best for you, while also trying to keep your wits about you and remember everything they say and do. Having Bob with me helped with that, of course--I could zone out a little and trust that he would remember anything important.

Another interesting thing is that when your body betrays you, and something happens over which you have no control, it seems that you move inward, that outside things have less importance and significance, and you concentrate all your energies on getting well. I was thinking about that as I was standing on the sidewalk waiting for Bob to come back and get me. With my chest bandaged uncomfortably tight and my breast tissue pushed up under my chin, I'm sure I looked sight (although I did, of course, have a big t-shirt on and I'm sure I looked okay to the casual observer), but it didn't really matter.

The important thing was simply putting one foot in front of the other and getting where I was going. Which is, I suppose, what this whole thing has been about.