As a result of my not-at-all embarrassing mammogram last week, I got to endure a biopsy this week to determine that the huge mass in my left breast is, in fact, a benign tumor. Many of you have been faithfully praying for me and checking on me and for that, I am eternally grateful. This whole experience has made me realize how very lucky I am to have such awesome friends and family.
It's also made me realize that I find humor in really weird things. During the past month, I've been examined by no less than five doctors, and I've lost what little bit of dignity I had left.
Today I went for a surgical consult. Yes, the tumor is benign, but it's growing rapidly and so I'm having it removed.
The surgeon brings along some sort of student. Intern, resident, random pervert, I'm not sure. Anyway, that means there are three people in the room while I'm getting my consult. Surgeon is giving the play-by-play to the student about doing a "corkscrew" method of breast exam (as opposed to the more popular "radio knob" method that most men use). He then starts to describe the tumor to the student, telling him how to tell the difference between a benign tumor and a malignant one.
Me, being the good sport that I am, say, "Do you want to feel?" to the student. He looks like a kid at Christmas and says, "You don't mind?" I reply, "Heck, I've been felt up by 15 people in the past three weeks. What's one more? Are there any random people walking down the hall who want to violate me?!?"
Doctor and nurse can't stop laughing at this point. I'm sure there's some sort of "wildly inappropriate" notation on my chart.
The surgeon later told me that he will try to do something cosmetically pleasing with the incision, but that some women were not happy after the surgery because there will be a scar. I said, "Well, I was going to pose for Playboy in January, but I suppose that's out."
I guess the blessing of this whole ordeal is that a few guys have gotten to second base with me the past few weeks. But none of them bought me dinner.
Showing posts with label mammogram. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mammogram. Show all posts
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
When it rains, it... well, you know the rest
Ever since Eve bit into that apple in the Garden, women have been suffering. Cramps, childbirth, bloating and moodiness are all part of the female mystique. And then, just when we think we've got it all under control, we get to do the really fun stuff: stirrups, weird gooey substances, and random people getting way too personal. Welcome to womanhood, ladies!
As someone with a family history of breast cancer, I got to start one of the greatest female joys, mammography, at a very early age. Most ladies get to wait until their 40s to experience the thrill, but today I experienced my fourth one at the tender age of 36. And it doesn't get any more fun.
I arrived at the clinic 30 minutes early, according to instruction (and contrary to belief, not all women are perpetually late) to fill out multiple forms about the size, shape, and history of my knockers, Thank goodness for HIPAA, lest more strangers get to read about it. Needless to say, I was the youngest person in the waiting room by at least two decades. Bessie and Bertha beside me discussed all of their friends who've died. Yeah, that's what I want to hear right before a mammogram.
Finally I was escorted to a dressing room to disrobe from the waist up. I asked, "Do I leave the gown open in the front?" Obviously I'd yet to unfold the baby pink contraption which was, I was soon to discover, technically a poncho. A very short poncho. So great... I get to walk throughout the clinic in my black dress pants, wearing a pink poncho not long enough to disguise the muffin top spilling over my belt. Bessie was beside herself when we passed in the hall.
Thankfully the technician did introduce herself before proceeding to violate me in 32 different ways. Don't you just love it when they tell you to lean forward, grab a steel bar with one of your hands, and then clamp one of your breasts in a vice? Yeah, I saw today, it actually said I had 12 pounds of pressure on each side. And then, just when you think you can't get any more uncomfortable, they tell you to not move and hold your breath. Just before I passed out from the pain and lack of oxygen, I get a "step back" reprieve. So I wait while she sees if her picture was good enough, all the while wearing my poncho as a pink superhero cape. Who am I, Squashed Boob Girl? Here to fight crime with breasts like a pancake? But the good news is that we only had to take a mere eight scans before I got to return my poncho to its original position, two inches above my waist.
I was then escorted back to my personal dressing room, where I got to thumb through three-year-old fashion magazines. Two hours later, more fun was had in the ultrasound room where another stranger squirted goo all over me and touched me with her cold hands, after which she invited in another lady to do the same. (Note to Jen... buy some gloves. Nobody likes a radiologist with cold hands.)
Ah, to be a man. I know they have the urologist, but something tells me that would be easier.
As someone with a family history of breast cancer, I got to start one of the greatest female joys, mammography, at a very early age. Most ladies get to wait until their 40s to experience the thrill, but today I experienced my fourth one at the tender age of 36. And it doesn't get any more fun.
I arrived at the clinic 30 minutes early, according to instruction (and contrary to belief, not all women are perpetually late) to fill out multiple forms about the size, shape, and history of my knockers, Thank goodness for HIPAA, lest more strangers get to read about it. Needless to say, I was the youngest person in the waiting room by at least two decades. Bessie and Bertha beside me discussed all of their friends who've died. Yeah, that's what I want to hear right before a mammogram.
Finally I was escorted to a dressing room to disrobe from the waist up. I asked, "Do I leave the gown open in the front?" Obviously I'd yet to unfold the baby pink contraption which was, I was soon to discover, technically a poncho. A very short poncho. So great... I get to walk throughout the clinic in my black dress pants, wearing a pink poncho not long enough to disguise the muffin top spilling over my belt. Bessie was beside herself when we passed in the hall.
Thankfully the technician did introduce herself before proceeding to violate me in 32 different ways. Don't you just love it when they tell you to lean forward, grab a steel bar with one of your hands, and then clamp one of your breasts in a vice? Yeah, I saw today, it actually said I had 12 pounds of pressure on each side. And then, just when you think you can't get any more uncomfortable, they tell you to not move and hold your breath. Just before I passed out from the pain and lack of oxygen, I get a "step back" reprieve. So I wait while she sees if her picture was good enough, all the while wearing my poncho as a pink superhero cape. Who am I, Squashed Boob Girl? Here to fight crime with breasts like a pancake? But the good news is that we only had to take a mere eight scans before I got to return my poncho to its original position, two inches above my waist.
I was then escorted back to my personal dressing room, where I got to thumb through three-year-old fashion magazines. Two hours later, more fun was had in the ultrasound room where another stranger squirted goo all over me and touched me with her cold hands, after which she invited in another lady to do the same. (Note to Jen... buy some gloves. Nobody likes a radiologist with cold hands.)
Ah, to be a man. I know they have the urologist, but something tells me that would be easier.
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