I couldn’t sleep last night because it felt as if someone stuffed hot coals into my left breast and then held the boob over an open flame while massaging my wound with a Tinian hot pepper rub. So there was some slight discomfort. Mike had already left for work when the pain had become so intense that I was crying in the bathtub. I called the doctor’s office at 8:45 and they told me they could get me in at 9:30. So I took all the short-cuts, meanwhile thinking what I would tell the officer if I were to be pulled over for speeding. I would strip off my shirt, point to my bruised, deformed boob and yell, “Is that good enough for you, Officer Chang?” (I say Chang not because I am racist against my Asian brothers and sisters, but because the only cop to ever pull me over was an Asian patrol officer named Chang and since then, all cops have been Officer Chang to me.)
I told my doctor that I didn’t know what else to do. Was I supposed to buck up and deal with it? She said no, and that the only option they had left was surgery. Instead of moving me to an operating room, she opted to perform the minor surgery there in the office. I don’t know why they call it minor. Anything involving a knife and a part of my body deserves “major” as an adjective. In my fantasy hospital, I would be put into a deep sleep, landing into a dream involving me and Zidane. I would wake out of my slumber, my hair would be perfect and my boob would be magically healed. I could be Sleeping Boobie! But instead, I was in a white, sterile doctor’s office with three women standing around my bare chest. There weren’t any mobiles hanging above or pictures of tulip fields posted on the ceiling. I shut my eyes and listened to the sound of plastic containers opening and voices instructing me to breathe in, out and repeat.
Giving birth to Nathan was the last time I had to go through this rolling, searing agony, but I could deal because there was going to be a baby at the end. But today, I had the same kick-to-the-ovaries-level of pain and instead of a baby (and the sweet epidural), I gave birth to a whopping medical bill.
But it’s over. What else can they do to me? It throbs, but I’m much better now. I’m wearing a gauze tube top (a boob tube, if you will) and having a good time with my friend Oscar Oxycontin.
During every moms group meeting, we start out with our highs and lows. Since I’ve already covered the lows during this post, I will share an awesome snippet with you.
Last weekend, Nathan and I sprinted over to the local Safeway for their grand re-opening sale. He began to cry so I gave up searching for some items and headed to the register. I swiped my Safeway card through the scanner and Nathan continued doing his “meep meep” weep. The cashier looked at him and me with that, “Oh poor you” face and said, “It only gets worse from here, buddy.” She was referring to Nathan. No one calls me buddy. When she scanned the receipt to pronounce my name, she said, “You won a DVD player!”
Even though I already have a DVD player, I was elated to win some electronic goodness. If Nathan hadn’t started to cry at the moment he did, I would not have been the 90th person to win a free DVD player. Oh I love supermarket promotions!
Ask Nathan who really won the DVD player and he’ll raise his hand.