(no subject)

I am feeling both violent and numb.

I finally called Hickory myself last night to ask where Marble's damned test results were. I got someone with a brain, and she promised to call me back in an hour. Within 45 minutes, she had them. I had her send them to Dr. Radbill, though his office was already closed.

I called Radbill Animal this morning, to ask that they confirm receipt. They did. Dr. Radbill was away for the weekend, but he calls to check in, they said. And he did indeed call me from the shore later this morning.

He sees no sign of cancer. This doesn't entirely rule it out, as needle aspirations are fallible. But he didn't see it. However, neither did he see anything else that would explain what's going on. This leaves our only option as surgery. He says she's doing well, all things considered, and could probably tolerate it well.

He thought it would run me at least $600. That I could have handled. I called Hickory, and they said they'd have a surgeon call me to discuss. He did. They would open her up, biopsy her liver and intestines, check her gall bladder, and possibly remove it.

$2200 to $3500.

I have bad credit. I can't get CareCredit-- I tried, they turned me down instantly. If you have a vet who takes payments, let me know.

And because I'm right at my threshold right now, the one thing I can focus on is that my sister Facebooked earlier today that she's going to dinner tonight to celebrate her son's birthday "with the family." I guess my invitation got lost in the mail. It's irrational. But right now, that's what I am.

So much rage. Rage, and fear.

Stage 20: Montélimar to Mont Ventoux (167km)

Mont Ventoux is a moonscape.

You come out of the trees of Provence, after what seems centuries of climbing, and it's like you've ridden through some wormhole. A brief spell of desert: enormous polka-dots of low grass getting sparser and sparser. And then, moonscape: no trees, no brush, no nothing. Just rocks and pale dust and asphalt and a ten percent grade that just won't fucking die already. There's a massive communications tower on the summit that you can see for miles, and it just hangs there in the distance, like somewhere you can't imagine ever getting to. And that, of course, is where you're going. 6,273 feet up. Good luck.

It's the second climb of the day, and it's the roughest, nastiest, bitchiest, most sadistic climb of the Tour. It's been seven years since we were last here. This is the day everyone's been looking forward to since the route was announced, months ago. They've been talking about it and debating it and dreading it and anticipating it. And as expected, it's shattered the field.

Two riders lead: Juan Manuel Garate from Rabobank and Tony Martin from Columbia. Franco Pelizotti, King of the Mountain, is chasing them. Behind him, there's a larger group with all the Tour top men: Contador, Armstrong, Adreas Kloden, Bradley Wiggins, and, of course, the Schleck brothers. Andy Schleck has attacked over and over and over, trying to unhitch everyone but his brother, Frank. Every single time, Bradley Wiggins of Garmin seems to find his way back to this group like a hyperfocused zombie. Alberto Contador and Lance Armstrong are immovable, sticking with Andy through every acceleration.

The crowds are literally unbelievable. There are thousands of people lining the road. Thousands. Where the hell have they all come from? It's a desert up here, but they've made it a screaming, cheering, crazy arena, with flags of every nation and region. Amazingly, many of them are American. And Norwegian.

Grey, grey everywhere, with the only colour the screaming fans and the eye-popping lycra of the riders. Grey also are the riders' faces: the air up here is devilishly thin and the road sadistically steep, and they are killing themselves. Thankfully, this time, not literally, like Tom Simpson did in 1967. Helped by dehydration, alcohol, and methamphetamines, he began to weave wildly before falling, famously asking spectators to "Put me back on my bike" after he collapsed. They did, and he made it only slightly further before falling dead, still clipped to the pedals.

But today, it's a different story, with a far happier, if still-brutal, ending. We're at the final short, sweeping curve up to the line. Juan Manuel Garate has made the final push, and crosses clear, finally bringing some glory in this Tour to Rabobank. Three seconds later, Tony Martin rolls in. 38 seconds after that, Andy has finally managed to get rid of everyone-- everyone but Contador and, four seconds later, Armstrong, who is assured of his third-place podium finish, and eases up just before the line. Bradley Wiggins has all but eviscerated himself to get over the line and maintain his fourth-place standing.

Tomorrow will be largely ceremonial, with the exception of the sprinters. There is a shadow of a chance that Mark Cavendish, who won yesterday's stage and regained some of the points stripped from him, might be able to retake the Green Jersey from Thor Hushovd. For the others, there will be a semi-casual ride from the countryside into Paris, with champagne and jokes-- though don't look for much kissy-kissy between certain members of Team Astana. Once in the city, there will be several circuits around the city, along the Seine, and then loops up and down the Champs-Élysées, with l'Arc de Triomphe in the background. It's not entirely without risk: should it rain, the cobblestones pavement becomes treacherous. Especially when the entire pack must essentially turn back on itself at either end several times.

Still, it's a beautiful stage, and an fittingly glorious ending to a great race. I'm already mourning, of course.

But then-- hey, the Vuelta starts in September!