![]() “Yes, my love, it is,” she said, and the anesthesia washed out of me again before the sharp edge of fact. She squeezed my hand and I saw tears in her eyes. “It is malignant, isn’t it, Frances, it is malignant,” I said. I surfaced from anesthesia again as she took my hand in her deliciously warm ones, her dear face bent over mine. The gong in my brain of “malignant,”“malignant,” and the icy sensations of that frigid room, cut through the remnants of anesthesia like a fire hose trained on my brain.įrances was there by the door of my room like a great sunflower. ![]() I would have given anything to have been warmer right then. But when I raised my hand in the recovery room and touched both bandaged breasts, I knew there was a malignancy in one, and the other had been biopsied also. Being “out” really means only that you can’t answer back or protect yourself from what you are absorbing through your ears and other senses. How, I didn’t know, but I suspect I had absorbed that fact from the operating room while I still was out. ![]() I woke up in the recovery room after the biopsy colder than I can remember ever having been in my life. ![]() ![]() Well, what we did for encore was the real thing. ![]()
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