So, I’m still behind a day.  Be grateful I’m posting at all.  I am dealing with a very sore boobie. 

So when I got home, I read the discharge papers and realized I had cellulitis.  The antibiotics made sense now. 

I also need two biopsies on my boob; and although I was told that I would be contacted, the discharge papers said I had to call on Monday to the radiologist’s office to make the appointment. 

Have I ever mentioned how much I dislike contradictory instructions?  I don’t care what the fucking rules are – just PICK ONE! 

So Sunday morning, I’m up bright and early – okay, I admit neither of those terms are accurate – I dragged my fat old lady ass and my red hot boob out of bed at around 9:00 am and headed over to Walmart to pick up my pain prescription and my antibiotics.

I have used my time wisely, and because of the description of the two places that need biopsies, I’m not so worried.  One is described as being at 10:00 – well that is the same description used for the original tumor – so I’m thinking scar tissue.  The other one is suspected to be necrotized fat tissue – something I had never heard of, but apparently is quite common, especially in areas that have been subject to surgery, radiation or injury.  It’s a trifecta – because you know I have lost track how many times during the move I ended up slamming my boob into something.  So no biggie!

Monday – the radiologists call me.  (This makes me inordinately happy because it’s one less thing to take care of.)  And the appointment is set for the next day!  On the opposite side of the same building that is the ER I went to.  Oh joy! I actually know where I’m going – because it’s the same place I had my bone scan done!  I’m on a roll.

Now the worst part.  Waiting. 

I did have one thing to distract me – I had a first appointment with a new dentist – but that’s a story for another day.

So I get to the imaging department unconscionably early because I’d rather be sitting there worrying than sitting somewhere else worrying. 

They get me registered – more sitting and waiting – and then into the room where they’ll do the biopsies.  I meet the “team” –  the doctor, his two assistants and the same lady who did my original ultrasounds. 

I am not happy to find and have to give a lecture about having large-size gowns for large-size people. It’s Michigan for fuck’s sake! And please, don’t had me a dinky little gown that we both know will not come even close to fitting and act all surprised when I tell you there is no fucking way. (Since Kaiser finally started providing a variety of gown sizes, I got out of the habit of bringing my own gown – guess I’m going to have to go back to my old habits – but that doesn’t mean I won’t still be giving the lectures.”

Luckily, I happen to be in one of my “upbeat” moods and I’m nervous (really, really nervous) so my mouth is running a mile a minute because when someone is about to make holes in your boob, you really, really want them to like you.  I think it worked because during the procedure the doctor asked me to please stop talking because he was laughing too hard to proceed.  (Yup, that sounds about right.)

More ultrasoundings.  Some numbing and we’re a go for boob-oopsies. 

First, near where the original surgery was – there’s fluid there (!), which the doctor drains.  He says it’s mainly clear and probably nothing to worry about. Then they take a couple of tissue samples which seem to be more necrotized tissue.  Then the other site (kind of on the bottom left side of the boob) and more numbing and more tissue samples, and we’re done.  The doctor says hopefully it’s nothing, but he’ll call me on Thursday when he gets the results.  Oh boy – more waiting.

Sometime during all of this (as if my fat old lady brain doesn’t have enough to deal with), I’m told that the blood work from the ER visit shows low platelet levels – 58,000 (look it up yourself – this is not the worst, but it ain’t good).  They are kind of amazed that nobody told me because it is of concern.  I don’t think “amazed” is the word I would have used.

Well, fuck.

To be continued … (hey I can’t wait to find out how this all turns out either!)


  1. Hey, lady – thinking good thoughts for you & your boob – long may it wave! (Or sag – droop –
    whatever the fuck you wanna call it). Seriously – am VERY aware of how scary these things
    are: once we’ve HAD cancer, we want to know it’s GONE, never to return. Anything like this
    really does rattle the cage, but it sounds like you’re getting decent care. Am perishing to get
    the next installment of the boob chronicles (tit testaments?) & to hear that you’re feeling
    better – no more burning, etc.
    Hang in there!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s