George T. Death.
The analgesia was absorbing, or it had been absorbed. My throat felt
as if a tack were stuck in it. A stinging sensation--hardly noticeable
(to the properly-hypnotizing cortex). One could scarcely expect a
lavish use of clinical techniques for blocking off the mere prick of a
biopsy. Still--it would be inconvenient to be reminded by my own flesh,
prematurely, of what it had fallen heir to. There was stir enough in my
gray matter on the topic, already; no additional goad was needed.
We death-dreaders--we victims of the marvels of science--souped up to
the last ganglion by every advertisement, billboard, radio commercial,
lecture, and editorial--by damned near every syllable we read or
hear--to live to enjoy things (rather than to stand ready to die for
the sake of ideas) are poorly prepared for carcinoma--for whatever your
equivalent may be.
Or--was I afraid, not so much of dying as of the manner?
Get busy, I said to myself; you'll have plenty of time to savor these
notions.
Or--was I even afraid? Shocked, rather?
Work.
There's the drug you need, boy.