Life in Boobburgh

And there was JOY in Boobburgh!!

And there was JOY in Boobburgh!!

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney, a survivor

I just got the call from the surgeon and she got it all!!!

This means the best possible outcome - I am now cancer free - no chemo - no radiation - no more surgery in the near future.

I am now an official member of the High Risk Surivor's Group at the Hillman Center.

Wanted to share part of the conversation with Dr. B:

Dr B: "I, uh, ended up taking more than I planned."

Me: "No shit.  I picked that up when I looked in the mirror and saw the divot!"

Dr. B (laughing): "Yeah, I figured you'd notice.  You wanted to be aggressive so I took a larger radius of tissue."

Me (laughing): "As long as it's good news, I don't care if you took a couple of ribs."

Dr. B: "We have lots of resources to deal with the lost tissue - don't worry about it."

Me: "Are you f'n kidding me?  Who cares?!  I'll just shove a nerf ball in there if I need to."

Dr. B: "I love the calls where everyone laughs."

Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone for the positive vibes, the supportive messages and the prayers.  No one will ever convince me they didn't make a difference.

More later, and I hope to be blogging about other subjects very soon.  For now, please join me in a virtual toast - I am about ready to start Happy Hour!!!

xo

Love,

Kathy

 

 

The Music of Boobburgh

The Music of Boobburgh

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney

If you know me personally, or have followed my blogs over the years, you already know this - music is very important to me.

I don't sing or play an instrument, but I do have cousins who have degrees and are paid musicians, so it may be that the genes are somewhere in there and, if I win the lottery and have nothing but time, I could take lessons and turn out to be the next Adele.  Without the hair.  I have had long hair and it's a pain in the ass.  Like so many things, a young woman's game.

Any way, today, while I wait for the phone to ring, I am putting together a list of great songs.  No real theme - just songs I love.  And I want to know your favorite songs.

For example, one of the most relaxing songs I love is "Everything About You" - by Alan Silvestri from the soundtrack of "What Women Want".

One of my favorite Gospel songs is "Favorite Song of All" by the Brooklyn Tablernacle Choir.

A great love song is "After  All" by Al Jarreau.

Want to dance?  Try Earth, Wind and Fire's "September" or the classic "Twist and Shout" - I like the Isley Brothers, but the cover by 'Otis Day and the Nights' on the "Animal House" soundtrack is good too.

For lullabies, it's hard to beat Kenny Loggins, unless you have "Lullaby" - sung in magnificent harmony by Josh Groban and Ladysmith Black Mambazo.

Jazz?  George Benson, from right here in Pittsburgh, has some amazing stuff.  If "Broadway" doesn't get your toes tapping, you need to have a full neuro screening done.

Then there are the songs from musicals.  "Seasons of Love" from Rent is almost always a good choice, as are the classics from "Oklahoma", "My Fair Lady", "The Sound of Music" and "Camelot".

Okay, enough from me.  Let's make the best mixed tape of all time - what are your favorites?

 

Boobburgh Blues

Boobburgh Blues

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney, who knows her colors

First - no real news.  Still hoping for biopsy results tomorrow.  

When I decided to blog my way through this, I had every intention of doing it honestly.  Today we will see if I really can.

Today is Thursday.  My surgery was Tuesday.  I fully expected to be back to normal by today - hell, I was planning to teach three classes tomorrow.  I was wrong.

The last 24 hours have been unexpectedly tough.  I had trouble finding and balancing pain meds.  Then I got a note from one of my Golden Girls who reminded me that pain is just part of the experience and not to let it run my life.  Manage it, endure it, and no science experiments with the different meds.  Good advice.  

Those of you who have travelled this path know where I am going.  Letting go of the focus on physical pain opened the door - wide - for the real pain.  My post-op instructions were to take the bandages off last night.  So I did.  Tra-la-la. Laughed to myself about how my boob looked like it was wearing a gauze burka and laughed again at the magic marker notes left by the surgeon so she would cut the correct boob.  Thought about getting a tattoo.

And BOOM. 

There it was.  The incision itself is still covered in steristrips and it looks to be about 3 inches long.  Very clean.  No bleeding or anything.  I was getting ready to get into the shower, turned away from the mirror and froze.

There is a piece missing from me.  They cut out part of my breast.  I can see it - like a divot from a golf club on the fairway.  I don't have a matched set any more.  And believe me when I tell you, those girls have done great things for me in my life - not the least of which was magically producing sustenance for my babies.  The pain hit me like a freight train and for the first time since this whole thing started, I actually sat down and cried.

I have nothing against crying, but in this case I would not allow it.  Why?  Because I am so freaking lucky that we caught this early.  Because I have health insurance that allowed me to choose my course of treatment and to find a surgeon I like.  Because I am smart and savvy enough to navigate the shitstorm of medical paperwork without help. Because I am the Mom and I don't have time for a breakdown.

I also believed - and I confessed this to my friend the Rev - that I was not entitled to be afraid or to grieve.  I mean, I consider myself a woman of strong faith.  If this is the path God chose for me, I should have the strength to walk it - it's not like I have Stage 4 pancreatic cancer. In fact, ask anyone and they will tell you - I have the best kind of cancer you can have.  I could have been in a car accident and unable to walk or talk or - holy cannoli - read or listen to music.  In the grand scheme, what I am going through is a cakewalk.

This mantra worked for the last six weeks. But not yesterday.  And not so much last night, either.  Today, I am more rational. Today I have things back in perspective.  But for those of you who are reading this and have not been on this particular path, you need to know.  And I am sure this isn't the last time it will happen either.  It's okay.  Doesn't make you a wimp or a selfish bitch.  Our breasts are precious things to us and we are entiled to wail when we lose them, even it's one piece at a time.

And for those of you who love someone who is fighting cancer, you need to know too.  Tears of a clown and so forth.  It will be damn near impossible to tell when your loved one hits the rough spots, because - especially if she's a Mom like me - we try to keep it together.  So just be patient while she works through it, and don't take it personally if she doesn't want to share.  For some reason, this minor outpatient surgery makes an impact that is hard to describe.  

I worked part of the day yesterday, and I did some work this morning.  I am taking the rest of the day off.  I may watch dumb movies or catch up on the episodes of Glee in the DVR.  I may read a wonderfully-distracting book about shapeshifting werewolves or supernatural beings who have cool toys.  I may just eat chocolate chip waffles (Tom make the BEST) and plan a vacation.

Whew. That was harder than I thought, and all I did was let the words flow.

So, my friends, what truths do you want to share?

xo

 

 

 

 

 

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.  

 

 

 

Welcome to Life in Boobburgh

Welcome to Life in Boobburgh

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney

I'm back and blogging.  This time it's just me, and since I'm not blogging with any responsible authors trying to sell you books or anything, I really don't have to worry about offending people. Comments are always welcome even if it takes me a while to respond.  Don't be shy - chances are you and I are the only ones reading it anyway!

I am hoping some of my friends will guest blog, even the serious author ones.  We shall see.  I don't know how often there will be a new blog.  Like all of you, I'm busy.  I just love to write.

Life in Boobburgh got its name because that's where I am right now.  I like to blog about TV (the Boob Tube), morons (aka Boobs) and I just joined the ranks of the Pink Warriors (by necessity, we are fixated on breasts, not unlike most teenage boys, but for less entertaining reasons).  I also like to blog about music and I love books.  Was going to try the name "Lullaby of Boobway" or "To Kill a Boobing Bird" but figured anyone who would actually get those were savvy enough to understand you can't always get everything you want.

If this is your first time reading my words, here is the basic scoop:  I actually live in Pittsburgh, PA (hence Boobburgh rather than Boobville, Boobland or Boobington, DC).  It is the greatest city in the world and if you think otherwise, you might be a jagoff.  I am a Mom, a Daughter, a Sister, a Friend, a Lawyer, a Professor, a Godchild, a Cugina, a Wife, a Golden Girl and a Smartass, and not necessarily in that order.  

I am a woman of faith, but know I don't have an exclusive on the only path to God.  I'm just grateful I have something to believe in - I happen to call forces of nature or coincidences actions of the Holy Spirit but could care less what you believe as long as it's not some assholish kind of thing where some people are destined for hell just because of their eye color or other irrelevant dreck.

I think families are made up of more than one man, one woman and the human biological offspring thereof.  I don't care what the fuck you do in the privacy of your own bed room as long as everyone consents and no one gets hurt.  I guess I need to clarify that "consent" by definition means all participants are capable of consent - in other words, kids and animals are out.

Sometimes I talk about politics, but mostly it's because some blowhard asshat says or does something stupid, regardless of party affiliation.  I'm kind of a Libertarian (except for that Pacifist business - my people are war-mongers from way back) and I actually believe the Golden Rule has merit.

I don't like shows or movies or books that involve prison, kids in jeopardy or gross stuff like removal of parts of the head or face with a kitchen utensil.  I like funny things and I think comedians are usually the smartest people in the room, which is why I get my news from Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert.  I still miss Calvin & Hobbes, especially the ones with the snowmen.

I come from a big Italian/Irish family.  We are loud people.  We celebrate everything.  We know people.  We know things.  Don't ask.  Plausible deniability is a hallmark of our survival.

So - I have been sitting on some classic (and real) lines from my recent adventures in medicine.  Here is one just so you get the idea of whether or not this blog is going to be in your strike zone.

As background, I was recently diagnosed with very early (Stage Zero) breast cancer called DCIS. Having surgery February 7th and the surgeon (we love her) feels confident she can get it all in an out-patient procedure.  This is really, really great news.  Hallelujah and so forth.  Naturally, I view the entire thing as a challenge to crack wise.  As follows.

1.  I had a needle biopsy.  Very high tech - kidding.  Big fancy Women's Hospital with all this expensive equipment and this thing is actually just a table with a hole in it for your breast to hang down.  I had to use a step stool to get up there.  It's kind of like a massage table, if they built it at the same time as Stonehenge.  I think it was a layer of bricks covered in a thin sheet of plastic.  You clamber up there, shove one boob in the hole and smush the other one into the bricks and then you are supposed to stay still while they treat your boob like fresh bread dough.

Then some baby doc who doesn't need to shave yet (Magee is a teaching hospital) comes in and starts messing with the dangling boob.  I have no clue what the hell this kid was supposed to be doing, but after about five solid minutes with no explanation, I said: "Hey, I haven't been manhandled like this since high school, and at least there was Riunite involved!"  

One of the nurses started to choke, and I heard another nurse head for the door and announce into the hallway: "I got a new one!"  The baby doc froze for a minute and then told me he was trying to figure out where to insert the needle.  Oh honey.  If I had a dollar for every time.....  I let that one go because sometimes you need to just pass on the easy ones.

***

Man, it feels good to blog again!  I'll be back.

In the meantime, what's new in your boob of the woods?