Hello, children. Today I’d like to tell you a story about the time I was stabbed in the armpit. Which was yesterday.
About halfway through my trip to Michfest, I noticed a couple of lumps in my armpit. (I don’t exactly remember when it was because, honestly, I randomly feel myself up, even when people I don’t know are around. The breasts are soft and they like to be touched. Just saying.)
Don’t panic, said my rational self, while the rest of me took off on a Lifetime (Television for Women!) moment in which I was tearfully saying goodbye to all my friends and family while wearing an attractive head scarf to keep my bald-from-chemo head warm and then turning towards the light, which I assumed was heaven and not the hallway light to hell where Satan (who looks a whole lot like Ryan Seacrest) was waiting to serve me lukewarm endive and poorly-mixed Tang while cracking his gum, discussing the evils of abortion and homosexuality, and making me have naked snuggle time with Strom Thurman.
By the way, I’m a Scorpio. If I’m not thinking about death, birth, or sex, then I’m asleep. Where I am then dreaming about death, birth or sex. Onwards.
So, I thought, I’ll get those checked out when I get home. Again, rational self was 99.9 percent sure there was no problem.
I went to the doctor yesterday. All I had to do was say “lump” and “armpit” and the Breast Cancer Possibility Train came shooting into the station and plopped me on its caboose. I called the doctor at 3:06 pm and they wanted to see me at 4 pm.
In case you’re wondering, this was not helping me refrain from panicking.
I told King V I had a doctor’s appointment and played it off in that fun “whoops, I made the appointment before vacation and forgot about it’ kind of way. I wasn’t about to say the whole lump + armpit thing to my dad. Again, 99 percent sure there was no problem and lump + armpit + Dad = really uncomfortable moment I’d like to avoid.
Of course it was raining yesterday. I was already in a crappy head space from missing my Michfest world where I am beautiful and everyone loves me, so I moped on the way to the doctor’s office. It’s rainy and grey on the day I find out I’m going to die. Woe is me. (Someone should’ve just gone ahead and shot me.)
I got to the doctor’s office shortly after 4 pm and waited for my name to be called.
“Mr. Dangerous?”
Sigh.
“Oh! Ms. Dangerous. Sorry, I just saw your first name.”
And assumed I’m a dude. Okay, whatev.
I sign in, I’m taken through The Secret Door, weighed (I didn’t lose anything, but I didn’t gain either, so yay), and then I get to tell the nurse (person #2) why I’m there. She begins all kinds of fun questions about leakage and pain, to which I respond no and yes. Also: ew!
She takes my blood pressure and seems impressed that it isn’t high. Fat doesn’t automatically mean high blood pressure, lady, but thanks for that vote of confidence.
She hands me a gown that is destined not to fit. She tells me to undress to my bra and put the gown on.
“I’m not wearing a bra.”
*** scandal ***
"You’re not wearing a bra?!?" She gives me a look like I’m a bad, bad girl but also seems kind of envious.
It’s not a law or anything. You too can be braless in 2007! Besides, I can’t wear what I don’t own, lady.
I drape a sheet around my shoulders. I wait a few minutes. I finally decide to pick up a copy of GQ with Justin Timberlake on the cover. Right as I start reading an article about phone sex, the doctor walks in. Buuuuuusted.
“What seems to be the problem?”
"Let’s see."
I drop the sheet. Hullo, boobehs.
The doctor suddenly takes on some kind of Beavis and Butthead, 13-year-old boy energy. Huh huh boobehs.
Warily, I lie down.
poke poke poke
“Ow.”
“Sorry.”
poke poke poke
“Ow.”
“Sorry.”
poke poke poke
OW! ("English, motherfucker, do you speak it?!")
“Sorry.”
I don’t exactly believe that you’re sorry. Stop poking me!
“Well, I think you have a gland that got infected.”
I feel so pretty.
And then he sits down and just looks at me.
Pause... 2... 3... 4...Okay, Captain Medical Training. What should I do?
He prescribes an antibiotic and then offers to try and draw some fluid to send to the lab.
"How do you do that?" (Why I asked a stupid question that I knew the answer to, I don’t know. I guess I was hoping he would hold a cotton ball to my lump, my lump, my lovely lady lump, and draw fluid out via osmosis.)
"With a needle."
"Of course."
"I’ll be right back."
Great.
He comes back.
I lie down. I have decided I don't like this game anymore and I would LIKE TO STOP PLAYING.
“I’m going to numb the area. This will sting for a bit.”
STAB
STAB
STAB
STAB
STAB
STAB
STAB
OWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOOW!!!!
“Sorry.”
I'm gonna bitchslap you into next week if you say that one more time.
"Oh..." I say and then I look down.
He finishes his spiel about antibiotics and tells me I can get dressed. I’ve long since covered the boobehs with my sheet. Go away, stabby perv boy.
“By the way, when’s the last time you had your sugar checked?”
Fat doesn’t equal diabetes, dick.
Pissed, I leave the office and go to check out.
Three nurses are at the check-out desk. One signs me out, one watches, and one says, “How are today?”
“I’ve been better, how are you?”
I shit you not, she said, “That’s good!”
Apparently I’m in hell after all.
Send sympathy in the form of head rubs and/or comments about how awesome I am to:
Doctors Suck Assc/o Maxine Dangerous
Here's Your Gravy
3 comments:
Your poor pit. Thank goodness it's not cancer though.
Speaking of heaving bossoms, do you know about the Boobie-thon?
i love how you make me laugh even as you're sharing a not-so-wonderful moment.
*sending you sympathy.* would rather be wrapping myself around ya in a hug. guess that will have to wait 'til my road trip though, eh?
me cantz waieht to see mai scorp.
must speak with you directly to discuss aforementioned road trip. we talky 'bout that soon. for now... *mwah!*
... maus ...
Mimz ~ Had not heard of Boobie-thon ... love it! :)
Maus!!!!! Whee plae teh fone taag. I'm it! :)
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