Dr. Ben Casey
December 27,2025
I went through the biopsy procedure and wasn’t scared. There are aspects of it that I like. Lun*na was with me for most of the preparation, and then she had to help me put on the hospital gown. I have been through five or six tests, usually in the cold basement. For the biopsy, I was looking forward to it. I’m scared of all medical procedures, but as quick as a snap, I craved to go. I wasn’t sure if I needed to take off my pants, but yes, I had to take everything off.
The doctor came into my tented rest area and told me they would focus on the groin. I was surprised, because I had been led to believe the target area would be the upper part of my chest. Not only that, but they also had to shave my pubic hair. Two nurses handled that job, smiling as they shaved away.
One of the things I didn’t want, ever since I was a child, was a problem in the groin area. Already, I have trouble with intense coughing that seems to come from that area. Lun*na takes me to the hospital, and now I walk like a very old man. The distance from the car to the entrance of the operation and waiting room seems impossible. Luckily, by the entrance of the hospital, there are wheelchairs.
I always felt uncomfortable riding in a wheelchair, but now I love it. As Lun*na pushes the chair with me on it, I can’t help thinking of Jean-Luc Godard shooting Breathless, and other early films by him. Sitting in the wheelchair as it moves down halls and through elevators feels very cinematic.
I asked for the sleep drug, and they didn’t hesitate to give it to me. One moment I was talking to the nurse about her life. I felt focused on the conversation. Then she told me it was all over.
The surgeon reported it usually takes five days before I hear anything. More waiting.
January 6, 2026, is my next meeting with my doctor.
Thank you for sharing this so honestly Tosh. There’s something striking in the way you describe moving through fear and curiosity at the same time—how dread and desire coexist, even around a procedure most people want to avoid. That tension feels very human.
Your attention to the sensory and the situational—the cold basement, the tented space, the unexpected geography of the body—gives the experience a clarity that isn’t sentimental or dramatized, just awake. And the moment in the wheelchair, reframed through Godard, is especially moving: vulnerability turning cinematic, motion restoring a sense of authorship when control has otherwise been surrendered.
I’m also struck by the quiet intimacy of the medical staff’s kindness, and by Lun*na’s steady presence throughout. Those small human gestures—being pushed, being listened to, being put to sleep without resistance—seem to carry as much weight as the procedure itself.
The waiting afterward may be the hardest part, suspended between what has already happened and what hasn’t yet been named. I hope these days pass gently, and that January 6 brings clarity, and relief, and whatever strength is needed for what comes next.
Sending love and good vibes, Tosh. I hate that word vibes but you know what I mean.