**Warning: This post talks about breasts and medical grossness... Just be warned.**
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Not to shock you, but I'm gonna steer you to
I guess it's time to introduce you to Betty. I managed to not go into the sordid tale earlier because, well--- it was all so quick, and then seemed to be resolving... But. This my LIFE, ya know? Even the ICKY stuff. And though I'm seeing this irritating tendency in myself to pretend to be BRAVE and to not spend my blog time going on and on and on and on about the DRAMA, like I'm OKAY, and this is NO BIG DEAL-- (but then turn around and whine to my friends privately, and wear their ears down...) -- I CLEARLY need to talk about it... I just keep pretending I don't.
But here it is. My path has been twisting a bit more than usual in the past few weeks, and it is all because of Betty.
So forgive me for directing your eyeballs to my chest a moment earlier. It's just that Betty is my left breast. And she has become the headline in my days for the last little while. I'm not trying to corrupt you or get you thinking in the wrong direction by doodling arrows pointing at my breast. I just.... She just needed a moment in the spotlight, photographically, since she is the star of the tale. Sorry, menfolk. Sorry ladies who are easily shocked. I promise not to focus your attention to my chest after this post.
But back to the tale. Before last month, my chest didn't have NAMES. Wasn't my style. But then the lefty began hurting a LOT, and a formidable BRICK of lump-ness showed up overnight. I'm talking a 5"x2" BRICK of hardness that hadn't been there before. Only on the left side, and VERY clearly abnormal. After checking around and not hearing any reassurances from fellow mamas ("Oh, that happened to ME!" "Oh, don't you HATE when that happens?", etc.), and getting advice to call my doctor, I went to see my OB. He was boggled by the brick in my breast (how's THAT alliteration?) and told me he was glad I'd come in. He referred me to a specialist because my lump was not typical, and he wanted to make sure we covered our bases. He ordered an ultrasound and an appointment with a surgeon at the breast clinic here in STL.
After a week between the first appt. and this specialist's appointment, I got in to see the surgeon. And the radiologist. And a million technicians and nurses. It was a long day. And the long and short of it was, the ultrasound didn't tell enough of the story to satisfy the docs.
A biopsy was ordered. A horrible procedure much like a cross between liposuction and deep-oil-drilling ensued, and I pretended I wasn't horrified the whole time.
For about 5 minutes, alone in a dark ultrasound room, I allowed my mind to "go there"... Thought about the WORST CASE SCENARIO. After five minutes and three or four escaped tears, I shut those thoughts off. 90% of the comments from the doctors had led me to feel confident this WASN'T the worst case scenario-- WASN'T cancer... So I reigned in the wild thoughts and went back to thinking positively.
The biopsy procedure kicked my butt, and left me recovering for three days. Truly, the recovery was worse than the waiting for the biopsy results. But by the time the phone call came, 4 days later, I was almost back to normal, and THRILLED to hear that the results were about as good as they could be in my situation--- no cancer, no cysts, but a whopping abscess. The surgeon prescribed antibiotics and said we'd try hard to kick the infection with drugs so as to avoid surgery.
******record scratch******
Wait, SURGERY? An infection might require SURGERY? That sounded so EXTREME for something like a mere abscess. She reassured me that we'd likely be able to avoid it, and that we wanted to keep my pregnancy as uncomplicated as possible under the circumstances. I could tell she was really on my team, ya know? So... I commenced antibiotics a week ago, and was scheduled for a follow-up ultrasound and appointment for today. To see how things were going.
And this past week has been pretty good. I've felt nearly normal, and been able to settle back into my routines and find joy in my days again, after the week of pain and uncertainty and the massive pity party I'd been throwing for myself the week prior. So... it was a good change. I was healing. I was on a healing drug regimen. Betty was going to get better. All was well.
But.
As much as I though the worst was over, and I could sweep this whole BETTY drama under the rug... It's just NOT over. So. Here I am. Blogging about Betty, after avoiding it for two weeks. 'Cause it's time to face the music:
I am scheduled for surgery in two days.
Betty did NOT take to the antibiotics, even after 4 cute green pills a day for a week. The ultrasound showed that there wasn't enough satisfactory change to keep treating the abscess by drugs alone. The surgeon really feels she need to get in there and aggressively drain the abscess herself. So. Surgery it is. But not a good, old-fashioned "knock-out" surgery.... Nope. Because I am pregnant, I can't be put under. So I get to be AWAKE while they tackle my breast and slurp the grossness out of it. I cannot tell you how horrified I am at this prospect, especially as I am still not healed from the post-traumatic-stress-disorder from the biopsy.
And as rough as the biopsy recovery was, this one will be at LEAST as rough, and probably much much worse. Add to that, the surgeon is opting to leave the incision open with a tube hanging out, so the abscess can keep draining in the week(s) following the surgery. GROSS. just....... GROSS. *shudder*
So yeah.
Thanks, Betty.
I have cried a bit over this today... Heard the news at noon and have been rolling it over and over in my head since then, crying a bit, feeling sorry for myself, listening to my "Crappy Days" playlist.... Letting myself feel crummy about this twist in my life for a while...
But I am lecturing myself to not wallow for too long. Because:
A.) I am gonna chase all my loved ones far far away if I live in my pity party state for too long. B.) And that's not fair to them.
C.) It's just an effing ABSCESS.
D.) I'll be whole and healed soon. I really will.
And here's the thing. As I walked into the clinic today, I passed the cafe area, where a mama was sitting with her 2 or 3-year old daughter, a beautiful little girl with absolutely no hair. None. Bald. Smiling, despite HER infection--- a FAR worse one than mine, the one my fingers had been crossed I DIDN'T have. Who's trial is greater? Mine? This silly left breast with the puddle of infection? Or that mama and her sweet baby girl, who were there to see the Radiation Oncologist for cancer?
My moment of pain and frustration is but a small moment in relation to the vast joy I have been allowed to reside in my entire life. I am BLESSED, dammit. BLESSED. So.
The Pity Party goes til the end of the week, but after that, time to move on. Time to get back to celebrating the good in my life, instead of stalling and sputtering around the bad stuff.
And there will be LOTS to celebrate, come next week. We get to find out if we're having a boy or a girl on Monday, and my sweet Noah turns three on Thursday... And then it's the holidays.... then a winter of hibernation and incubation.... Then the baby.... and on and on.
My life goes on, by the grace of God, and Betty will NOT be the end of me.
But this week only, she WILL get center stage, and forgive me if I cry/whine a bit more before I'm done...
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