My poor boob

My poor boob. It has been poked and prodded to death this past week. And not in the good, fun way.

It started with a shower. Soaping up my breasts, I noticed a lump in one that had definitely not been there before. A big, hard lump, the kind that had me breaking out into a sudden cold sweat.

From there, it went to my gynecologist's office, with my doctor pressing and prodding, prodding and pressing. Feeling me up more than I've been felt up in the past eight months, other than by myself. (God, that's depressing.)

After that, I had a mammogram and an ultrasound. Mammogram: squish, squeeze, smash, mash, mush. Ouch. Ultrasound: like someone lubed up a dildo with warm gel and then rubbed the head all over my breast. Not that bad, actually.

Then the biopsy. Oh holy mother of God, no. Just, no: no, no, no. That fucking sucked. Small needles pricking and numbing, cutting, big needle going in deep, pressure pressure pressure, loud clicks as the needle machine thingy pulls tissue out. Eyes sqeezed closed tight, queasiness, lightheadedness, on the brink of passing out, oh holy fuck please don't let me ever have to do that again.

At home to rest, ice pack on my boob, 20 minute intervals on and off all day long. Bandaids and bandages. And bruising, bruising, bruising. Soft alabaster skin now an ugly purple and yellow.

Anxiety while awaiting the follow up phone call with the test results.

Brrrring, brrrring, brrrring:
Nurse: "Negative"
Me: "Woo-hoo!"
Nurse: "But ..."
Me: "Oh no, not a but ..."
Nurse: "Recommend a second biopsy."
Me: "Hahahahaha [that's insane laughter, mind you], nooooooo, hahahahaha, nooooo.... no no no no no no no......"
Nurse: "Sorry, yes."

Sunday night, at home, drinking wine. Eleven hours to needle time. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

My poor boob.