Wednesday, September 2, 2009

And Here's Another Thing About My Boobs

I'm gonna talk about gross medical stuff. So if you're at all queasy when it comes to needles, puss or blood, I suggest you wait until tomorrow when I talk about golden showers.

I know y'all get it. I hate my boobs. I want some new ta ta's....yada yada yada. You'd heard it all before.'s just one more thing for ya. If you ever thought having small boobs got me out of the boob problems category, guess again. In the last 3 months, I have been felt up more than Madonna at an NBA game, MLB game and all her concerts put together.

It all started when I was at the doctor getting felt up by my physician after hearing (yet again) how fabulously healthy I am. His freezing cold hands were kneading me like bread dough when he said, "I feel a small lump right here. I'm scheduling you for a mammogram." I wasn't alarmed. I had been through the boob squishing machine before. This wasn't my first lump and it wouldn't be my last. I nodded in compliance and took the scheduled appointment.

Boob Squishing Day: I arrived at the doctors office and donned the beautiful cotton johnny that you have to wear as the move you from room to room. As I sat in the waiting room with all the of the patients, I could feel them looking at me from under their lashes as they were reading the latest People Magazine. It was the look of pity. They were all twice my age and in for a routine check up. I was the 32 year old who could have breast cancer.

When my number came up, I pranced into the screening room and smiled at the grim faced technical. She looked like she hated her job. I didn't blame her. I wouldn't want to look at boobs all day either. She tried to fit me up to the machine, but it's not that easy when you're working with someone who basically has only nipples. She pulled, poked and pushed. Finally, she seemed to be happy with the fit. Then she clamped that sucker down so hard that I felt the skin from my face pull. After lots of beeps, clicks and buzzes she finally unleashed me. We both stared down at the plastic tray and the splotch of clear liquid on it.

"Does that ever happen at home?" she said.

"Well" I said. "To tell you the truth, I've never squeezed it that hard."

Her face went blank for a second. Then she started laughing so hard she bent over to catch her breath.

"That was the funniest thing I've ever heard in here" she said as she wiped tears from her eyes. "You are my favorite patient today"

That's me. Comic relief for medical technicians.

Long story short, they were unhappy with the results and scheduled me for a little biopsy. No biggie. Just stick a needle in there and take out a sample for testing. That thrilled me to no end as I'm deathly afraid of needles, blood and all things that probe and poke. I managed to pass out when I got a TB test. (for those of you who don't know how that's done. They slide a tiny needle under the skin in your arm and shoot some sorta fluid in there and wait to see how you react to the poke.) I fainted as soon as the needle touched my skin.

Poking Day: So this past Monday, I was strapped to a gurney and ready to have my boob poked. I told the sweet faced nurse who checked me in that I was really 5 years old and would lost all bodily functions if I saw blood or a needle. She told me not to worry. She was the "official hand holder" and would be by my side if I needed anything. Great, not only was I worried about icky medical stuff, now I had to worry about my personal space being violated. I did not want to cozy with her. I just wanted to have my boob poked and get outta there.

I didn't get my wish. As soon as the procedure started, she swooped into the room with an excited "I'm here!" slapped a cold compress on my forehead and grabbed my hand. Eager to make me comfortable, she started asking me all sorts of questions, "Was I married? Did I have kids? Where did I work? What were my bosses names? Did I like my job". I was being interrogated while the surgeon was practically kneeling on my chest trying to get the needle in. All of a sudden, he exclaimed "Holy shit".

Now, that is not something you really want to hear while some dude has a needle in your boob. Those utterances should be reserved for times when the patient is unconscious, not while she is totally awake and struggling not to puke while a nurse is molesting her hand and draining all the information from her brain.

He must have saw my eyes pop open and stare at him bug eyed in amazement. So he said, "I didn't think it would be this hard to do. It's just that you have alot of muscle in there." kidding. Even I can see on the ultra sound, you dumbass. Guess those years of medical school are working well for you, huh? I'm so happy you have a enormous needle inches from my lungs and heart. Makes me feel all warm inside.

He finally finished after what seemed like an hour of leaning on my chest and jabbing me with some big thing that made loud clicking noises. There were also a few more "Holy Shits" and "Lordy Lordy's" thrown in there for good measure. The hand holder was chirping away in the background as I gave what I'd hoped were pleading looks to the ultra sound technician to end this quickly.

After promising 4 times not to lift anything heavy for two days and to abstain from strenuous exercise for three days, I left the office with a gigantic piece of sticky saran wrap over my boob. I would have the joyous task of peeling that off on Friday. Unfortunately this "simple procedure" had turned into something more complicated, but I still had to go back to the office. For the next 4 hours, I sat as my desk with ice packs in my bra. Every time someone came near my office I would hunch forward, trying to hide the fact that I had gained 2 cup sizes in my right breast. Of course, this trick fooled no one and Surfer Dude slid up to my door way and said "Um, do you have an ice pack in your bra?"

I glanced up from my hunched position and said, "Yeah. So what."

He smiled and said, "You getting some new ones?"

Dontcha love the concern?

I keep trying to show TH the incision, but he wants nothing to do with it. I plan to ambush him tonight. What's a gnarly scab if you don't have anyone to share it with?

On a serious note, the results should come back negative. This was only a precautionary boob poke. Thank God. I was beginning to feel like a slut! I've been felt up by half the medical staff on Cape Cod!


  1. Ouch. Ouch. Glad it was negative. Can't believe he did those "holy shit"s.

  2. owie..... hope all well . maybe your boobies are jealous and wanted some love from everyone :D

  3. Sounds painful....hope it feels better quick and the results are all good news!

  4. Oh harsh. I can't believe you let all those people feel you up and didn't even film it for Big K.

    Hope all those results come back with big smiley faces (and not the evil kind) next to them. And maybe the phone number for the "Holy Shit" guy.

  5. You should report any doctor that yells out "Holy Shit" while performing a procedure that could have serious consequences. Yes, you should share that scab with Big K and he should be suitably impressed. Hope those results are negative.

  6. That sounds torturous. I hope all is well.

  7. Ah, the biopsy. I've heard many stories from my wife about her experiences with biopsies. I hope everything turns out as expected.

  8. Yuck, sorry you had to go through that. I went through the lumpy bumpy thing back in Jan and it sucked ass. Oh, and you wanna talk incisions? Oozing? Puss? I've got em. And it looks like my surgeon fucked up and didn't take enough off so I'm still gonna end up with DDD's. What the fuck. I'm shipping them your way.

  9. Oh, how I feel for you! That shit freaks me the fuck out. I hate anything to do with doctors, and if some nurse held my hand, I might just go down in history as the woman who strangled a nurse while a giant needle was stuck in her boob.

    Good vibes being sent your way that everything is just fine!!!