Ow. Ow. Ow.

The good and the bad: There was less waiting and bureaucracy than on Wednesday; I was able to quickly clear up a Brazil-like typo that nearly had them rooting around in both breasts; the biopsy itself took longer than advertised but went without serious hitch.

On the other hand, pop quiz: how much of a control freak am I? Answer: so much so that it extends to the autonomic level. I know from the dentist's office that novocaine both takes longer than average to work on me and lasts for less time; what I didn't think about was that injectable lidocaine might follow the same pattern. So, yeah: the initial three needles were unpleasant but not too bad, as was the tugging and the cringeworthy sound of what to my ears was a holepunch (I never looked at it directly). And the sensation of something moving around inside my breast literally gave me nightmares Friday night that were equal parts Alien and India. But the only awful aspect was the fact that the last two holepunches were in a sector the lidocaine didn't actually reach; with that, they had to peel me off the ceiling afterwards. Come to think of it, that might have been why the procedure took so much longer than promised.

Oh, yeah -- there was one other horrible part of the procedure:

Doctor [Yet a different doctor; about the fifth I've seen; how's my insurance going to like that?]: "So, what do you do?"
E, going for the most general descriptor of her job: "I'm a _____." [Sorry. You all know what I do. But I have to mind the 'bots.]
Doctor, arching an eyebrow: "I'm not even going to ask what that means."
E (seething, not actually voiced): "You know, if I were male and said that, you'd know exactly what I meant."
Side digression: one of my favorite Far Side cartoons -- can't find a link, unfortunately -- features a general-purpose spray in a can called "StopIt!" intended for use on puking cats, charging rhinos, etc. Well, some time ago, I found (and bought, and kept until one of my more fascist and overcautious movers made me throw it out) a cheap hairspray called, simply, "_____," which pictured a square-jawed, blow-dried tuxedoed man with more than a passing resemblance to Remington Steele. There's been many a time I've wished I could simply douse myself in "_____," a la "StopIt!," and have it shellac my appearance into the picture on the can, because, failing that, there's a lot of people, including my employers, who simply don't buy me as a _____, which has to be one of the most narrowly mental-image defined careers there is, but that's a whole 'nuther story. [/digression]

Anyway, the really bad news is that I don't have my follow-up appointment -- in which I get the results -- until June 4. Mind you, I was on painkillers, and hence docile, when I made the appointment, so, come Tuesday, I'll at least start agitating for a thumbs-up-or-down phone call prior to that date. Apparently, this thing'll have to come out no matter what, and we aren't yet sure whether that can be via needle (much like Friday; good) or via scalpel (longer recovery; scarring; bad), as that will also depend on the lab results.

As for the aftermath, I was agreeably on painkillers all day Friday -- I have a dim memory of K phoning to check up on me, and my expounding excitedly and at length on the miraculously apt properties of the word "loopy," describing as it did the sensation of one's normal consciousness looping around into existence approximately every ten seconds; K can be remarkably patient at times. Saturday, I was pleasantly surprised to wake up to nothing more than a barely noticeable twinge.

So what did I do when things were going so well? You got it, readers: I pushed it.

I'd been warned not to use my pec muscles for three days. As it turns out, everything I do involves pecs, from the little acrobatic vault onto my four-foot-tall bed (I slept on an air mattress Friday night), to slicing a bagel on kitchen counters designed for a much taller person. On a normal weekend like this, I might do some house projects, tinker with my bike, and then go for a long, leisurely ride somewhere. Well: out, out, and right out -- and this, the most gloriously perfect biking weather we've had all year, after which it's supposed to turn unsuitably hot. Certainly, I could at least pick up some groceries. I intended just to get some pasta or something, but, really, I felt fine, and -- oh, just need some of those, and better stock up on those, and surely, if I carry the bag on my left side, and using my arm muscles...

Nope. I'll spare you the details, but I got about halfway home before things got ugly.

Today, I'm rewarded by a sharp stab in the ribs every time I try to do -- well, pretty much anything. I've got plenty of painkillers left, but I don't dare take them: I need that physical feedback to remind me that, whatever it is, I probably shouldn't be doing it.

Meanwhile, I'm going nucking futs. I'm required to act like a bedridden sick person. And yet, when not reaching, turning, twisting, lifting, or carrying, I feel fine. Energetic as usual. Clear-headed, more or less (as usual). As long as I don't move.