The Boob Chronicles: A Cyst By Any Other Name...

You know a lot about my boobs but, I don't really think you know enough.  Now that I am not nursing, I figure I can start the boob chronicles.  I love the girls and hey, you need something to read about so, I figure it's a good combination. Those of you that follow me on The Twitter and my FB Fan Page (if you don't, shame on you!) know that my frog princess suffers from febrile seizures, the first of which happened in June.  Last Sunday, she had her second and on Monday morning she had her third.  It was a frantic, frantic time to say the least.  After 2 visits to the ER and a visit to her pediatrician (along with a urine test and blood work) the doctors determined that it was a virus (read: they couldn't find the origin of the fever).

Two days out of work either due to lack of sleep or just being too focused on making sure that her fever did not go past 101 (though I suspect it was a combination of the two) and I was finally ready, after hours of no fever to go back to work.  I had the #1 caregiver come by the house to take care of the baby while I went to work.  I quickly jump in the shower and...I find a tiny bump on my right breast.  Good times.  Because the list isn't long enough of shit that has gone wrong this year!

I book an appointment to see my awesome doctor (I won't give you her name because then you'll want to go see her and I will have to wait weeks for my appointments so, get your own awesome doctor, dammit!).  I go there today and I wait.  After I get taken to one of the exam rooms, I wait some more.  I don't think I've ever had to wait this long to get felt up by a hot chick before (I mean, really?).

She checks the girls and tells me that she thinks it's a cyst and nothing to "lose sleep over".  I love her to death but I want to tell her that she can tell me that when she has a pencil eraser-sized little ball that popped up out of nowhere in the midst of the most hellish year she's had. But I don't say that. I smile and say okay.  Because what else can you say?

My doctor knows the kind of year I've had and I've just caught her up on everything that's happened since the last time I saw her.  She smiles sympathetically and I smile like an idiot because what else can I do? I walk out after a hug and an assurance that things will get better (because she obviously didn't hear a damn thing I just said).  In my hands, I have an order for a mammogram and an ultrasound to see what's really going on with my girls.

I'm thinking this is a demented milk duct pissed off that it's out of a job after I stopped nursing.  But, in either case, I will call the outpatient's office tomorrow and set up an appointment to have my boobs pinched, squeezed and stretched while sober and with no one buying me drinks or appetizers. Stay tuned...