On Tuesday, Nathan and I headed to the breast center so they could aspirate my plugged duct. For some reason, I thought a vacuum would be involved. One of those super-powerful X-File vacuums that suck earthlings up through a light beam and into the mothership. But there was none of that THX awesomeness. Instead, I was on my back in a dark room, watching my doctor trace the black mass on the ultrasound. The doctor pointed out the black cavernous-looking mass filled with two centimeters of “fluid and debris.” There’s debris? In my boob? So thaaaat’s how they got the term, “dirty pillows.”
I kept my eyes on the screen as my doctor inserted the needle (that’s needle #3 this week) into my breast and slowly punctured the dark spot. A nurse was stationed at the edge of the table, feeding Nathan his bottle. A soft suctioning noise drifted in the room and the doctor pulled out the needle, she said, “There, doesn’t it feel softer?” Yeah, like my fist is softer than my knee.
“I want you to see M. She’s a nurse and this is all she does.”
So, why didn’t I go see her in the first place? Doesn’t anyone communicate in this hospital?
I think doctors should be hired on a contigency basis, like those personal injury lawyers. If they don’t cure what ails you, there’ll be no fee or co-pay. I shouldn’t have to pay since I was stuck with a needle three times and still a lump remains.
I guess it could have been worse. It could have affected my good boob. I’ve named my good boob Miss Universe. The other one is Miss International. They’re both crown-worthy, but if I were to parade one boob around the globe, it’d definitely be Miss Universe.
Now that I’ve ruined your idea of beauty pageants, take a look at my son who wonders why the bear is talking.