No results yet from the breast MRI, but I’m getting lots of conflicting advice on the merits/dangers of mastectomy. I’ll either end up completely fine and delightfully perky, or the surgery will leave an opening for aliens to invade my body and begin to snack on hitherto healthy organs. Where was that zen calm I was feeling yesterday?

I’m starting to accumulate items in that ironic, I-enjoy-being-a-girl! pink that has come to be associated with breast cancer. The nurse handed me a pink paper bag after my biopsy which included a tiny—half the size of my bruise—ice pack to slip into my bra and a handout entitled “Post Breast Biopsy/Aspiration Discharge Instructions.” It tells me that if my breast swells, gets hot, and begins to ooze smelly discharge, I should call the doctor. You betcha. I’ll call the doctor an incompetent so-and-so who ought to clean his instruments better. The handout also advises that I eat pineapple to reduce swelling and bruising. I like pineapple, but it’s giving me a life-threatening ear worm: Jimmy Buffet singing “If You Like Pina Coladas.” Oh, the horror. Included with the handout is a bunch of dried lavender tied up in a pretty organza bag. This is supposed help me relax, but sniffing it doesn’t work. Do I smoke it? I notice they didn’t include any rolling papers. How thoughtless.

I did manage to rewrite a chapter this morning, but I didn’t quite reach the zone where the writing makes everything else disappear. I’ll aim for that tomorrow.