Don’t panic, nothing’s gone wrong (that I know of anyway), there’s been no major setback or anything (as far as I’m aware) but do read on and the subject of this post will explain itself…

So I had the biopsy and now everything is just on hold while I wait for the results. I’m sure when we first discussed it the consultant told me that it was “like a smear test”. But then just as we were about to go in to theatre, she told me “it is quite painful” — I just laughed and said “well I’ll look forward to that.” And she quite rightly looked at me like I was mental.

I suppose what I meant was that I wasn’t really surprised that it was going to hurt, because I’ve come to the conclusion that pretty much everything about this process is, to some degree or other, expensive, undignified, and painful (be that physically or emotionally) — and I’m rather resigned to that. I don’t see how you could be otherwise and stay sane. So I kind of have to laugh when she tells me it’s going to be painful.

And I’ll be honest, it hurt way more than any smear test but only fleetingly (although I did have cramps after but nothing so bad I needed to take any painkillers) and as I told the consultant part way through when she asked how I was “I’ve been more comfortable but I’m not about to pass out from the pain.” It was, as me and Dr M, my university room mate and one of my best friends used to say, “not ideal.”

“Not ideal.” It was sort of our catchphrase, the ultimate in understatement, basically what we said to make ourselves laugh when the alternative might have been to cry. I lost count of the number of times, M (she wasn’t a Dr back then) and I would sit in our room, smoking cigarettes (we both did back then, we were cool, alright?) and staring into mugs of tea (normal builders tea, not the ruinously expensive, solvent-free decaf stuff I’m now drinking), post-morteming the ill-advised adventures of the previous night…

The boys we kissed when we really shouldn’t have, the work we should have done when we’d gone drinking instead, the truths we told when we should probably have kept our counsel. After each confession, there’d be a pause, before the other would, in an attempt to reassure, grudgingly agree, “It’s not ideal…”

Sometimes there’d be a but. “It’s not ideal, but…” as one of us tried to come up with some vaguely reassuring reason why it wasn’t actually the end of the world. And sometimes there’d just be those three words. “It’s not ideal…” An acknowledgement that, things weren’t perfect, that the situation could be better. And I guess, it’s probably the perfect summation of this whole situation — along with being expensive, undignified and painful, none of this is ideal. But…

But it’s where I am, and it’s what I’m doing, and I’m OK with that.