textfiles/sex/boobs2

Copyright 1994(c)

                       THE FUN NEVER STOPS
                         By Del Freeman

     Once past the joy of a mammogram I can report that it is NOT
like childbirth. One does not have a tendency to forget the
discomfort. Of course, I didn't think childbirth was like
childbirth. I'm no fool. I remember clutching the doctor's coat and
screaming for morphine right after he diagnosed my pregnancy.
     I am not what is referred to as a "good" patient.
     Nonetheless, I have a good friend who is a doctor, but I
forgive him because he never tries to get me to quit smoking. He
insisted I should get a second opinion after the first several
hours of breast manipulation and inspection revealed two little
somethings everybody thought were probably fibro-adenomas. That's
a fancy name for lumps, which, in a perfect world, should not be
found in mattresses, gravy, or boobs.
     "I like to believe we'll wait six months and they'll be gone,"
I said.
     "I like to believe you won't be," he said. 
     Doctors are so skeptical.
     "The radiologist suggested we 'watch' them," said I. I liked
the sound of that, said I, and had persuaded my husband, David, to
take the night watch.
     "Get a second opinion," said my doctor friend.
     In order to get the second opinion referral, I had to go back
to my doctor and let her try to find the somethings by physical
examination. She found them in spite of my whimpering. She showed
them to me. I went home and showed them to David. He and I decided
if Bill Cosby could take his wife on the road with her Lamaze
breathing, we ought to be able to make a buck out of this act.
     In the meantime, of course, this particular boob blew up about
the size of Mount Rushmore. I was no longer comfortable going out
in public, knowing people couldn't help but gawk at this appendage.
I thought of binding my breast, singular. David insisted it looked
perfectly normal. Husbands will lie to you about stuff like that.
     The second opinion came from a Doctor named Smiley - a good
omen, I thought, despite the fact that he, too, sought to
manipulate my sensitive little ta-tas. He was horrified that anyone
would tell me to "watch these lumps." He didn't understand why
anybody would get a mammogram and then ignore the results, he said.
I didn't understand why anyone would get a mammogram without
sedation. We worked a deal.
     Friday morning they will do what they affectionately call a
"Needle-localization," from which will result an "excisional
biopsy." This is a combination mammogram with torture implements
heretofore not introduced into the exciting world of mammography
known to moi. My reputation apparently precedes me, as Dr. Smiley
was quick to advise that they will sedate me in some fashion even
before administering a "local" to numb the targeted area.
     Then, they will not only smush this boob inside that
mammography machine, they say, but they will run a long needle with
a wire on the end into my boob and up against the lump. I am
reminded of the "Sandwich maker." Ron what'shisname, the guy who
sells everything from spray-on-hair to a turkey jerky machine,
introduced me to this device, which I promptly bought and then I
dumped all the leftovers onto a slice of bread, covered it with
another slice, and smacked the lid down. I came out with a nice
toasty-looking something that tasted funny. I thought about using
a knife to remove an olive from the finished edible, and shuddered. 
     They will do this not once, but twice - once for each lump.
They will then tape off these wires, remove me to surgery, and
relieve me of them, much like the olive. Fine with me, I said. I
didn't want 'em in the first place. I just hope he's better with
a knife than I am.
     They will, said Dr. Smiley, put me to sleep for the removal.
The first thing I noticed was that they have this sleep thing in
the wrong order. 
     Ah, but there's more, said the Doctor named Smiley. I noticed
he wasn't.
     They will send these jewels down to biopsy, said he, and hope
the report comes back that they are harmless little nothings which
have simply formed for no reason anyone can comprehend. This sounds
to me much like my gravy-lump excuse: "I dunno. I did everything
like I was s'posed to. Just mush 'em with your fork," I advise.
     With all of these medical dilemmas, however, one gets a series
of choices. These are of the "Would you rather have me bang your
thumb with this hammer, or smack you on the funny bone repeatedly
with this wooden spoon?" Not easy choices. My own 'hammer/spoon'
decision was whether to ultimately give up the boob. 
     "Will I list?" I asked.
     "Not at all," he affirmed.
     "Take the boob," said I.
     I, who can never decide whether to wear the bone or the navy
shoes with the bone and navy suit. I, inveterate second-guesser of
every move I've made since I gave up thumb sucking, said, "Take the
thing, I never liked it anyway," without hesitation.
     Doctor Smiley reports that he will not be making an appearance
for the festivities until after I am sedated and defenseless. "Does
this mean you're not going to let me hold your Mr. Happy while we
do this, either?" I ask. 
     Doctors have no sense of humor, either.
     "Reach and you'll draw back a bloody nub," he mumbled. Of
course, he claims I imagined that comment, but hey... I was there.
     I'm thinking we shouldn't stop with just killing all the
lawyers...
     "How could you do that without even asking me?" David moaned.
"That one was my favorite."
     Did I tell you husbands will lie to you about stuff? The
left's always been by far the cuter of the two.
     Atop this is the conspiracy to break the insurance companies
by having an entire series of tests re-done because they're 35, not
30 days old. "Does sweet William know about this?" I asked.
     David, whose nose is growing, says what's a needle in the arm
compared to one in the boob. I'm no longer as interested in holding
the doctor's Mr. Happy. 
     I'm looking at David's, now.
     A report on the outcome of the procedure, and the continued
well-being of David's Mr. Happy, is forthcoming.
                              -30-