We are almost two weeks into 2020, and I have got to say, I am wondering if there is a return policy. Seriously. I am not complaining, just mildly curious as to why my body is giving me the finger.
Yesterday was my breast biopsy. Now, this isn’t my first time at the rodeo, so I wasn’t overly nervous. I know that this all about gathering more information, and worrying about something that hasn’t even happened, is a complete waste of my time. Coincidentally, one of my friends was having her biopsy a couple of hours before mine. We decided to do lunch once we were both done. She texted me as I was walking into the waiting room to inquire what type of biopsy I was having. Color me confused. Didn’t know there was another type. Is there a menu? Do I super-size it? She texted me as she had just finished and told me she had the Stereotactic. WTF is that? Guess what I did? I sat in the waiting room and Googled it.
My friend emerged from the changing room and settled into a chair where we chatted as I waited for my name to be called. I know you will be surprised to learn, that when I was called back, it was the same nurse who took care of my friend. So, yes, I was to have the delightful Stereotactic procedure.
What brought me to this point? Well, they found some calcification areas having their own community gathering deep in my very dense breast tissue. Normally, these are benign, but they do check them out because, well, better safe than sorry. My boot – yes, the hostage situation continues – and I ventured to a changing room where I was giving a very attractive cover-up. Once I changed, I was led to a another room where I was positioned on a table to lay face down. My left boob was put in a hole and the doctor would be underneath obtaining tissues samples. Once it is complete, they put some awesome Steri-strips to help aid in the healing of the small incision. No one prepared me for the post-op mammogram to make sure that the marker was put in the right spot. Delightful.
As I breathed a sigh of relief, I called my friend to let her know that I was done. My boot and boob (which was packed in ice and gauze), headed to eat lunch. It was nice to be with someone who just gone through the same thing.
Once I got home, I informed my family of my restrictions. “No lifting. No exercise. No swimming. No showering for 24 hours. blah. blah. blah.” The boys eyes seemed to glaze over as I mentioned the word “breast” and “boob”. In fact, Bryce did say, “Please stop mentioning your boob”. Whatever. When Bailey came up to have dinner, I told him there was lasagna in the refrigerator that he could warm up. By this time, my ankle and boob were competing for who is the biggest bitch. They were in a tight competition. Bailey said,”I will have a hamburger.” Um, I don’t think that was offered and also, does this look like a restaurant? I told him, “If you want that, you need to ask your brother to help you. My boob and ankle are hurting, so I am going to go ice and rest. It might be easier just to have the lasagna.” He looked at me and said, “Okay, but can you stop talking about your boob? It’s weird.” This is where having a girl would be nice. Boys can talk about their balls and penises all day long, but a mere mention of my boob and they get uncomfortable. Whatever.
Today, I am a sore. This too shall pass. My goal today is to say “boob” a lot and make my children incredibly uncomfortable. It’s the little things that bring me joy.