Not paradise . . . but close

And if I laugh at any mortal thing,
'Tis that I may not weep
-- Lord Byron

This morning I went for a biopsy. Those are seven of the most fearsome and sobering words I've ever uttered. Which is good, because I guess the seven universally most sobering and fearsome words are probably "I just found out I have cancer." Those words, thankfully, I do not have to say. At least not yet. The biopsy was of two tumors (one half-dollar-sized and one dime-sized) in my right breast. It wasn't a particularly painful experience, although the mammogram was a bitch -- nothing like taking perfectly normal size 36-C cups and creating 38-LONG via a freezing metal vice. Luckily, I'm apparantly made of spandex, as it all managed to snap right back into place.

Anyway, two needles, a little blood and a ridiculously cold room later, and . . . I'm done. "Alrighty!" said my doctor, "Everything looks good and the fluid is clear. So, you're free to go and I'll see you next time." Out the door she flew. Well . . . okay then. I was unprepared for the anticlimactic feeling that washed over me. I was relieved, undoubtedly, but I was also . . . deflated (yeah, no puns needed here, thanks). If felt almost like an unsatisfactory tryst (not that I'd know what that's like or anything, [ahem] I've just heard things). There's the big buildup, the anticipated crescendo and . . . nothing. He just gets up all, "Alrighty then, that was fun. I'll check you later," slamming the door behind him and you're left lying there thinking, "Is that it? Shouldn't there have been something of a ceremony at the end there?"

But there wasn't. Just me, alone on the table, staring at photos of the French Riviera glued to the ceiling. "Why are those there," I wondered. Am I supposed to lie here thinking, I'm not half-naked in a 44°F 5x10 room having my right breast punctured and siphoned while three people look on. I'm actually on the Côte d'Azur and those hands belong to a lovely scantily-clad fellow named Jean-Tourine. Um, doc? Not so much. Just as I don't need anyone to mask my Mylanta with the jaunty taste of mint, I don't really need my biopsy to become a vacation getaway. Like Seinfeld said, "Do it like a Band-Aid. One motion! Right off!" No niceties required.

Well, it's done. A scary two weeks leading up to it and then it's over. I am thankful. I am grateful. Two weeks of worrying about my will, my "pre-need plans" my husband, my son. To find out it was all unnecessary. It wasn't a trip to the Greek isles but, in fact, a much better journey. For anyone out there who hasn't done and/or doesn't do regular self-exams, out of fear, out of ignorance or for whatever reason, I beg of you. Do them. Have your doctor do them. Have your loved one do them. For gobs sake, I'll do them. Whatever it takes. Please, just do them. You might even get a trip to California out of it. Again, it's not paradise, but that can wait, can't it?