Mammogram-A-Ding-Dong

Gabs had her first-ever mammogram a few weeks ago and, as if the procedure weren't enough fun already, received notice a few days later by mail that the test results showed a couple of "abnormalities". Next came the ultrasound, then the consultation with the doc, then the order for a needle biopsy. Gabby's been uber-nervous about this, and I don't blame her. Needles suck. Needles that yank stuff out of yer body suck even worse.

Today was biopsy day, and I accompanied Gab to the medical office and held her hand through the invasive procedure. Well, most of the way through it anyway, right up to the point where I nearly vomited on her/fainted onto the floor.

Let's just say that Gabby made it through her ordeal like a champ (after, I half-expected her to say, "Screw it! Let's do the other boob while we're here!" Me? Not so much), after my several dozen reminders to take slow, deep breaths. The doc demanded that she not hyperventilate, as if insisting that one not hyperventilate is a good strategy for thwarting such an occurrence. So, we breathed together like some Lamaze couple. The doctor, a no-nonsense woman with a stellar reputation in the breast community (I like to think I have such a reputation, as well), performed two biopsies, one with a itty-bitty needle for the smaller of the two suspect areas. The second biopsy on the larger area was performed with an instrument resembling a small electric carving knife that was actually plugged into a large machine making intermittent vacuum-like noises. The doc's technique resembled what one might do with a small electric carving knife whilst attempting to remove a particularly tenacious turkey leg from the rest of the frame.

At this point, I felt my legs losing touch with the rest of my body and said weakly and prudently, "I'm feeling a bit lightheaded. I'm gonna go sit down..." I let go of Gabby's hand and quietly wished someone would take mine and lead me to the chair that looked to be a thousand miles away down a dark tunnel.

Sitting down, it was all I could do to keep from vomiting and/or fainting. I strategized as to which biowaste container would be best to yak into, realizing that running out of the room was not gonna be an option. You see, at this point, my legs had ceased all communication with the rest of my body, the room seemed to get several shades darker and my right ear took to ringing like a crack dealer's cell phone. I took some deep breaths (my cure for everything. "Lost yer job? Drove yer car into a canal? Deeeeeep breaths..."), only to find out later that this is usually a sure-fire way to achieve fainting rather than stave it off. A better bet woulda been the ol' head-between-the-knees move, but my thinker was not in top form at the time. My best strategy was to sink back in the chair and hope that it would contain me till the smelling salts arrived.

Eventually, it all passed (as everything inevitably does), but not before m'wife--having just had her left breast stabbed repeatedly and still lying on the procedure table-thingy--giggled and asked me a few times how I was doing. Yeah, as usual, it's all about me.

She's a remarkable woman, my wife. Me, on the other hand? I'm just a guy who almost fainted from something that wasn't even happening to him. If there's a "weaker sex", it's certainly the one I'm a member of.

Moving on...

In five days, I'll be in my most favorite place on the planet, Yosemite National Park. I'm so excited I hardly know what to do with myself, so I'm gonna post a coupla pictures I took out there in 1989 and 2002.

Yosemite's most recognizable icon, Half Dome, touched by a cloud in the summer of 1989 when I worked in the park for the second time. At 8,836 ft., this granite dome stands at the east end of Yosemite Valley and poses one of the greatest challenges to hikers in the park. This year, I intend to meet that challenge and will stand on top of that hill by week's end.

Vernal Falls with Rainbow, 2002

This 317 ft. waterfall is one of my favorite spots to visit. One route to Half Dome takes you up to, around and past this magnificent fall via the Mist Trail (so-called because of the watery mist you're sprayed by en route). I recall the sign posted at the top of Vernal back in 1988 that read, "Do not go near the edge of the fall. If you slip and fall over, you will die", complete with an etching of a little red stick-figure, arms waving in the air, careening over the fall. A great bit of writing. No frills, straight to the point, unequivocal. Not "You may be injured" or "It's possible that..." Straight-up: You Will Die. Nice!

More Yosemite pics later. And I'm deferring the next Song O' The Morn till tomorrow (at least). I know, I know, you're on the edge of yer seat...