The time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things... maybe that is my problem. Maybe one too many midnight flashlight rereadings of Alice. I just can't help this feeling that the rabbit hole is getting wider and deeper each day - at what point does a rabbit hole become a bona fide Florida sink hole?
It has to be when one gives up hope. And that isn't about to happen. Let the rabbit hole continue to swirl about me with its upside down maps and cupboards full of empty jam jars. I know there is a soft landing down there eventually, and all I need to do is fall far enough to find it. That should be simple enough for even me to handle.
But for today - I need to handle a small thing - a biopsy. Six letters. 3 syllables. Less of a word than swashbuckler, certainly. Odd word, biopsy, starts off woody, but finishes on an unpleasant tinny note.
I did get an information call, appreciated, but one that has been resonating since hanging up. I am going to be lying on my stomach with my breasts hanging down through cutouts...and presumable a small tailor in brown clothing with curly hair and a mischievous twinkle in his eye will crouch under there poking at my tits with his shiny silver needle? I should have left out a saucer of milk last night!
Karma - funny thing, that bitch. One of the lesser known family stories involves me, lipstick boosted from Mom's purse, age 3, living with grandma until our house was finished/my baby sister was born, and mom napping while I played and 'cleaned up'. The plug went perfectly into the drain, the water turned on to the right temperature and force, and I scrubbed happily. Unplugging and turning off apparently would be next week's lessons. I went on my way, playing quietly, as mommy needed her rest. Mommy's rest was abruptly interrupted by the unwanted intrusion of gallons of water filling the ceiling paper and bulging downward...like breasts on a biopsy table. Mom and grandma began relieving the pressure by running about stabbing each paper bulge with knitting needles. Karma - you bitch!
So I will be meeting with the tailor in a little more than 4 hours. I am less afraid of the results than I am of putting myself at the mercy of the Medical Industry again. Although each person I have dealt with has been reasonable, compassionate and professional, I am Entering The System. The last time I did this -they damn near killed me. I always wondered how people returned to the scene of a disaster...now I know. No choices. Although that STILL doesn't explain Roddy McDowell's character going back to Hell House. So, Mel, remember. Fear is the mind killer. Walk in there and do not let them scare you. Only your own mind can scare you. Make sure it is ready for this.
Love to all who read this far, and those that did not.
Make today the best day yet.
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