During last week’s conversation with the lactation consultant, I mentioned that there was a hard lump growing in my left breast. I asked her what I should do about it and she suggested that I massage it and apply a warm compress. I did that and still, the lump remained. I went to babycenter.com to do a web diagnosis. I tried some remedies posted on the message board such as breastfeeding on all fours, sticking my boob in a basin of warm water and sitting in a hot bath and massaging the sucker out. Have you ever taken a hot bath while it was 95 degrees? I felt like I was a pimple on the ass of the bayou.
When I called my doctor, I found out that my OB’s on vacation. What’s vacation? Seems such a foreign word right now. Every time I get to use the bathroom without Nathan crying for me seems like a vacation, and I savor every silent nanosecond. Anyway. Because my OB was out, my call was forwarded to the triage nurse who asked me a series of questions about my lovely lady lump.
“Do you have a fever?”
“Why? Is the prescription more cowbell?”
“No, I don’t have a fever.”
“Well, we don’t prescribe antibiotics if you don’t have a fever, but it sounds like you might need to come in to get it checked out.”
At the doctor’s office, the OB on-call examined my lump and determined that it was a clogged milk duct. Well, file that under “obvious.” She said that it didn’t seem like I had mastisis but I would get anitbiotics because my skin looked red. She then offered to get rid of it there instead of sending me to the breast center. (I asked her to repeat it because, hehehe, she said breast center.)
This is when she became the Marquis de Sade of OB’s. She stabbed a needle into the lump and dug around in an attempt to, I don’t know, send me into so much pain that I pass out and wake up with my baby missing and a scar where my kidney used to be. When nothing emerged from the bleeding dot on my boob, she asked me to sit up.
“Maybe it’ll work this way.”
Maybe? Maybe??? Shouldn’t you know this, woman? “Maybe” works on the game Operation, not Mona, the woman with a ping-pong ball in her boob. I had only the soothing sounds of my son crying in his infant carrier to distract me from the hypodermic line disappearing into my skin.
But sadly, nothing came out of round two with the needle stab. Yep. I was shot. In the boob. Twice.
“Sorry about that.” Dr. McShootemup said. “I’ll have to send you to the breast center.”
I am convinced that somewhere an ex of mine has a voodoo doll with my face on it and is enjoying every minute.
EDIT: I just read the paper I have to give the breast center. The OB wrote that I was experiencing symptoms in my right breast. It was my left breast, woman! I didn’t go to med school, but if I stuck a needle into someone’s boob, I would know which one it was!