The woman at the hospital information desk stared at my appointment card. "Wrong hospital" she said in French.
I asked directions for the right hospital, but she wasn't particularly interested in telling me. However, her co-worker was. She asked that we wait. Soon a second woman came out.
"For the translation," the nice woman said in French.
I realized that the translator was a hand-held device in a pretty pink, not a person who spoke English.
"French is fine," I told her.
Her face lit up.
The women told us clearly the route and we wrote down what they said. Her assistant printed out a Google Map and we were on our way.
Because we had allowed time we arrived a few minutes before our scheduled time by a hair.
Unlike in Geneva I was expected to bring my own anesthetic, which I had purchased at the pharmacy.
On the wall of the room where they were going to do the biopsy, was a print of bags of colored powdered in my favorite colors of purples, blues and roses. For the tenth time that day I wished I remembered my camera. On the way to the wrong hospital were many great photographic possibilities. we can go back.
This biopsy was only different in that they took samples from my two nodules. One is very close to where my last tumor was. The other is closer to my armpit and that gives me worry.
I don't mind losing a breast. I don't want chemo.
I try and tell those little bastards to stay in their little capsules.
The doctor was attractive maybe late thirties.
I asked several questions which she seemed to ignore until I repeated them. It didn't seem like a language problem.
I'll have the results June 29. It seems a long way away.