Life in Boobburgh

Boob on a Wire

Boob on a Wire

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney

First of all, if you only get one thing from these medical blogs, other than early detection, here it is:

TRUST YOUR SURGEON

If you don't trust your surgeon, find another one.  I had a royal fit about the surgical center but it turns out that if I could have every other medical procedure in my life performed there, I would be happy.  It was like being in an old-fashioned hospital where everyone helped everyone, they knew my name and which boob was the trouble maker, and it was the cleanest medical facility I have ever seen.  Shame on me for doubting Dr. Bonaventura (is that the most sublime name for an oncology surgeon?).

Okay, back to the wire part.

When they did the needle biopsy, they left in a piece of metal. This was very smart, especially since it turns out that menopausal boobs are cloudy with calcium.

So my first procedure yesterday was to spend some quality time with a smaller and more agile version of a digital mammogram machine.  If there were porn for mammogram readers,  I could have had my own issue, complete with a centerfold. They kept smooshing and turning my boob and taking pictures until the Doc was happy with the view.  This resulted in my first laugh out loud line of the day, which was: "Geez, I feel like I'm doing Cirque du Soleil presents Boobs".

By about the sixth yoga-like position, they had the shot they wanted.  Then they asked me if I thought I could tolerate the procedure while standing up, rather than laying down.  Honey, please.  I've delivered babies.

I don't like that anesthestic they inject - it burns longer than the pain of the damn process, so I asked them to use as little as possible.  As a result, I was able to feel the sensation, with very little pain.  First, they snake a needle with a tube attached - and they keep taking pictures so they can make sure they are going to the right place.  Once they reach the site where the metal clip is located, they insert a wire through the tube. The tube comes out, the wire stays in, and it serves as a trail for the oncology surgeon so she can go directly to the site.

Here is the weird part - and believe me when I tell you there is always a weird part. I am a short person, for a grown up.  I am basically trying to sustain a very awkward embrace with a ten foot machine while holding my breath on command, and - love this - "Relaxing".  I can't really see wtf is going on because my face is mashed up against the machine because apparently my ribs wanted in on the photo action.

ANYway, I realize at some point that the doctor is underneath the tray that holds the boob.  So, it's like a waitress putting a pizza tray on the table, and another waitress is underneath the tray.  At my towering almost 5 feet, this puts the doctor ON THE FLOOR.  That's right.  The floor.  This poor doc is pretzeled up in something that had to look like the fetal position just to fit in the space.

Me: "What the hell?  Are you on the floor?"

Nurse: "Yes, she's on the floor.  It's the only way for her to get into position to insert the wire."

Me: "The floor?!  Why did you want me to stand up for this if she was going to have to do that? Couldn't you at least get her one of those rolling things like auto mechanics use?"

Nurse #2: "We will look into that.  You are just, uh, a little shorter than we thought."

Me: "I get that a lot. It's because I'm loud."

Doc: "Okay, everyone, I need to insert this wire now so not talking would be helpful but I want to hear your suggestions when I am done here."

At this point we all shut up because, as you may have learned during the past week, you do NOT mess around when the tits are in the balance. When the doc said she was finished, she burst out laughing and told me she was going to requisition a mechanics creeper just to see what "corporate" would say.  Then:

Nurse:  #1:  "Doctor, do you want a bee-bee?"

Doc (who is still on the floor with gauze and tape): "Yes, that would be good."

Me: "What's a bee-bee?"

Nurse #2: "You know, a little round ball."

Me: "Like from a gun? A Red Ryder BB gun?"

Nurse #1: "No, no - we don't have any guns here.  Just the BBs."

Nurse #2: "I love that movie."

The purpose of the BB is so they can find the entry point of the wire.  Apparently this is for the pre-op nurses, and they use them for your larger-type boobs.

So there you have it - step one of the process.  High tech and low tech meet the floor.

Good thing these blogs write themselves because that Tylenol 3 is some major stuff.

More later, but rest assured that I feel good about the whole thing, I appreciate your thoughts and prayers -  no kidding, I could feel the power of that energy whenever I started to panic.  It was like a blanket of calm.

Okay - now you guys.  Bizarre medical experiences?

 

 

The Pre-Op Polka

The Pre-Op Polka

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney, who already sick of the whole process which hasn't even started yet

Maybe you already know this, but you don't have to wait for the day of surgery for the real fun to begin.  I give you the pre-op labyrinth of bullshit.  I chose the Polka as the dance because of the alliteration, but also because the polka seems fun at the beginning, but you can end up with dizziness and shortness of breath if you get the wrong partner. Those things also happen to be signs of an anxiety attack.

A couple of disclaimers (disclaimer is a legal term that means - don't tell me, I already know - so shaddup)

1.  Pittsburgh has wonderful health care. We are very lucky.  The downside is that the entire UPMC system is a teaching system.  We all understand the need for people to learn.  We would just prefer that they learn on someone else, unless, of course, they turn out to be a good audience.

2.  Doctors are highly trained people who only do the risky parts of the process.  They do not ask questions if they can get someone else to do it for them.  This is also the mark of a good business model, because the hospital cannot bill surgical time unless there is surgery so they employ other, less medically-savvy, people to do the paperwork.

3.  The paperwork people are, by necessity, check the box people.  They don't apply common sense or have any memory, especially short-term memory.  Apparently, they are not allowed.

Okay. My surgery is tomorrow (Tuesday).  The pre-op dance began late Friday afternoon, which in medical time means 330 pm.  Heaven help you if something happens after that because you cannot get a human to answer a phone even if you are on fire.  I got the first call at 325 pm.  It was the surgical center with pre-op questions.  Fair enough.

It got odd right off the bat when she told me I had to have someone "sign me in".  I reminded her I was 51 years old and capable of producing ID.  She told me I wasn't allowed to drive because I couldn't drive home.  I assured her that I understood but that no one was going to sit for 5-6 hours, and that someone else would pick me up.  She insisted that I have someone come in with me to sign me in.  I asked her what would happen if I took the bus - would I have to get the Port Authority driver to abandon his other passengers?  She didn't seem to follow and kept repeating that she needed the name of the person who was going to sign me in.  It was early in the conversation, and I still had my sense of humor, so I said: "Eowyn, Shield Maiden of the Rohirrem".  When she asked me to spell it, I abandoned all attempts at humor, and attempted to just be cooperative.

Until the third round of the same questions.  The third time she asked whether I was allergic to latex, I asked why: (a) she didn't refer to the answers I gave two minutes prior; or (b) she didn't refer to the billion-dollar, federally funded (which means our tax dollars paid for it) centralized computer information system that even I can access from my phone.

Her answer: "We're not online here."

Me: "What?"

Her: "We're not, you know, live - we don't have access to the computers.  We do everything on paper."

Me: "Like, with monks or something?"

Her: "Huh?"

Me: "Never mind.  Are you telling me I am scheduled to have surgery at a place that is not online with the UPMC computer system - because I am not comfortable with that, since all of my scans and results are only available online."

Her: "Well, the surgeon can call and get them if she needs to."

At this point, the picture in my head is of the poor guy frantically sending SOS signals from the HMS Titanic, or perhaps some trained carrier pigeons.  Let me tell you, once you get the sinking Titanic in your head, not even the reminder of a young Leonardo DiCaprio trembling in the back seat of a 1912 Renault (both things of beauty) can get it out.  

I managed to calm down enough to decide to keep answering questions and following up with the surgeon's office later.  Five minutes later, the pre-op puppetmaster starts with all the same questions, all over again.

Me: "C'mon - I just answered all of those questions five different ways."

Her: "This is for the anesthesiologist."

Me: "Are you telling me the anesthesiologist doesn't have access to the surgeon's records?"

Her: "No.  We have to write everything down for them."

Me:  "It must be hell filing those stone tablets."

Her: "Huh?"

Me: "Never mind.  Let me try to be clear - are you telling me that if you don't write down these answers, the anesthesiologist won't be able to access my information?"

Her: "Right.  And, you know, general anesthesia is risky."

Me: "Wait a minute.  I'm not having general anesthesia."

Her: "My papers say you are."

Me: "Look, I get that this is not your fault, but there is no way in hell I am having surgery when nobody seems to know what is going on with my case."

Her: "Well, if you don't answer my questions, I will cancel the surgery and you will have to wait another couple of weeks to have this done."

Me: "Done.  Right.  Done is good.  We're done here until  I talk to the surgeon."

Her: "Everyone is gone for the day.  You can't talk to them until Monday and I need to confirm the surgery now."

Me: "No, you don't.  The surgery isn't until Tuesday."

Her: "My paper says Monday."

Me: "I am going to hang up now."

They say you could hear the screams across the river.  I left what had to have sounded like the ravings of a lunatic on the surgeon's voicemail and did what every rational person would do under the circumstances.

I sent a text to a couple of friends and called an emergency meeting with tequila.  Some people call it Happy Hour.  

 As a post-script, I talked to the surgeon's office this morning and all is well.  But my experienced friends have warned me to expect more of the same, repetetive questions when I show up tomorrow.

Since tequila will not be an option tomorrow morning, I will be taking my new best friend, Miss Xanax, with me.

So tell me- do you have any Pre-op Polka stories to share?

 

Do NOT Mess with the Tits

Do NOT Mess with the Tits

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney

The last several days have been all about the boobs - everyone is talking about them!  I think it's great and am glad that boobs are getting the respect they deserve outside of men's magazines and special movies people watch in hotels.

This whole Komen business has been encouraging - and not just because of the safety and health of tits everywhere.

Ask yourself - how much political bullshit has occurred over the past several years?  Tons.  And usually we bitch about it, or roll our eyes, or simply stop paying attention.  I happen to sign petitions, but that's about as far as it went because I am so disgusted with the whole political process that I don't feel I can make a difference.

That all changed last week, and we have boobs to thank.  And yes, I meant that as at least a double bitch slap.

Koman and the "No choice but my choice" gang took on the wrong group.  To mangle a famous movie quote:

"You may take our Congressional seats, but you'll never take our ta-tas!!"

Some things should be off-limits to political gamesmanship and women's health is one of them.  And boy, did everybody get that message loud and clear!

Planned Parenthood more than made up for the money they lost from Komen, and got a whole new batch of more enlightened donors in the process.  If you think that the shift of donations from Komen to PP was a temporary thing, guess again.

Because the other consequence is that many people - including me- took a good, hard look at an organization we have been funding and supporting for years.  Much like the sausage factory, we did not like what we saw.  Barely 20 cents from each dollar donated to the SGKF actually goes to research.  They have also defunded other research facilities - like Johns Hopkins - just because Hopkins engages in other research - promising research - that Komen finds offensive.  And don't even get me started on this campaign of harassment against small groups trying to raise money by using three common words in the English language.  

I have several three-word combinations I could suggest for the politically-driven forces at the SGKF, but I'm already skating close to everyone's spam filters by using the word tits, so I won't push it for now...

No argument that the Komen Foundation has raised awareness. They are not a bad organization. But a few people with power can poison any group, and maybe it's time for the SGKF to decide if they are about women's health or about political agendas.

Because for most of us, you can't have it both ways.

***

And now, another vignette from my adventures in Boobburgh.

When you are preparing for surgery, one of the things the docs do is provide you with informed consent - which is a summary of the risk and possible consequences from surgery.

In plain English, informed consent is a legal exercise where the docs read off a huge list of all the bad shit that could happen - like death by crossbow and the loss of an unrelated limb - so that if something does go wrong, you can't sue them because they have the legal defense of: "We told you so."

I am not blaming anyone for this, I am just telling you what goes on.

Part of the list for my informed consent was "permanent scarring of the breast".  This shows up in the list somewhere between aspiration due to bad anesthesia and one of your lungs accidentally jumping out of your chest during surgery.

But I caught it, and interrupted the PA, which also caused the med students to actually focus out of their glazed-over stances.

Here is what I said: "Scars?  On my boobs?  Does this mean I have to give up my night job as a stripper?"

Total silence.  I mean, pin drop, dead quiet. Then one student finally, after shifting nervously and looking at his colleagues in that peripheral "is she serious?!" way, says: "Wow."

I burst out laughing and said: "Are you kidding me?  The only place I could get work as a stripper is at a blind circus!"

Then they laughed - hard and loud.  Someone came in from the next room to see what was up.  

My work was done.

***

So what say you on the SGKF situation?  Was their 'apology' sufficient?  Or did the dodginess and the back-pedaling cause you more concern than relief?  Your tits could hang in the balance...

 

WTF, Komen Foundation?!

WTF Komen Foundation?!

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney

What the hell is going on at the Susan G. Komen Foundation?  First I read that they will no longer fund Planned Parenthood mammograms.  Then I read that they send their barking-dog lawyers out to intimidate other groups who are raising money for breast cancer research if they have the audacity to use these three words: for the cure.  One must wonder if the Federal Trade Commission, which shares that acronym, is bracing for battle.  What a crock of shit.

I don't know which one pisses me off more.  But I am right and truly pissed - thank goodness I hadn't sent in my Race (FTC) application yet.  

Yes, I said Race.  I have participated in the SGK Race FTC for many years.  Sure, when I do it, it's not really a "race" as much as a ramble.  But I show up and pin on my sign that says:

I Race in Honor of:

My Godmother, Elaine Judge

And I stand among hundreds of sentinels, clapping and weeping as the survivors trek up the hill in Oakland, some in racing shoes and sleek running shorts, some in wheelchairs, and some who, still weary and torn up from treatment, take one tiny, halting step at a time, determined to make that short walk on their own. They wear pink bandanas and pink wigs and pink gloves, and they are a living ribbon of miracles. These surviving warriors walk and run and shuffle for themselves and for the sisters and mothers and cousins and friends we have lost.  It is something everyone should see for themselves.

But I guess I won't be seeing it this year, the year when I would have been proud to join that pink tide of hope and courage.  Because I cannot support an organization, no matter how noble its aspirations, if it discriminates against a woman who cannot afford health insurance or doesn't live in a city that offers free mammogram services.  Don't kid yourself - she could be you, or me, but for the grace of God.  And all our celebratory "early detection" progress doesn't mean squat to a woman who knows damn well that demon is inside her, and she can't find a place to help her battle it.

I really don't give a rat's ass about political affiliation.  I don't care if you think abortion is the work of the devil.  Can't these people see that supporting life means more than one divisive issue? Because that is the specious argument here.  The SGKF can come up with whatever "under investigation" spin on this shanda they choose.  The fact is that Planned Parenthood - as PART of its services, provides birth control and abortion services.  For some people, that makes them the enemy.

So listen up, you dickbrain asshats who pushed the Susan G. Komen Foundation to make this decision: you want to know the enemy?  It's death.  That's what happens when breast cancer goes undetected.  People die.  You want to know what we need to fight?  The cells in my right breast that are growing in thousands of other women right now.  

And double shame on the officers and directors of the Komen Foundation.  You know better.  Do the right thing and reverse this decision.

And just for the record, Planned Parenthood has specific funds that collect money that is used SOLELY for mammograms and breast cancer health, so it's not like you have to fund anything you don't want to fund.  Not that the Komen Foundation bothered to make that distinction.  

That's okay, because I can.  You can too.