The biopsy was done on a Thursday, which stretched out the not knowing over a very nerve wracking weekend. Luckily for me, I had the calm, sweet reassurance from my oh-so-caring husband. "Stop worrying, prophet of doom...you said it yourself...you're a hypochondriac. It's nothing. Just like before. You're getting all worked up about nothing."
NICE, no shoulder to cry on here...no pity parties allowed.
I tried to lose myself in the social activities that came about...even the mass quantities of frosty adult beverages that I tossed down my gullet couldn't vanquish the (I just know it's bad) thoughts from my head. I confided in no one the terror that existed beneath my silly, drunken exterior.
Monday came around and surprisingly I didn't have a massive hangover from the attempted drowning of my emotions. I'm guessing my nerves ate all the toxins and burned them up in my furnace of fears.
"They would've called with the results on Friday if it was nothing", I told my husband.
"Today's almost over and I still haven't heard anything."
Once again, he offered a less than adequate amount of sympathy and I was left to sink farther in to my world of dread.
With an eye roll, I told him goodbye, and hung up.
He needed to get back to his work at the office.
I swore I could hear the faint, distant whistle of the heavy ACME anvil plummeting down from the clouds. It's just a matter of time before the big SPLAT...I just know it.
I found it impossible to put more than 2 inches between myself and my cell phone. DAMN THEM! Why aren't they calling!!!
The whistling was growing louder and louder.
