Countdown to Disfigurement

Ohhh…I’m sorry for my rant before.  :-\  I do that sometimes, and then I feel bad for having done it.  It’s one of those things where you want to say, “scratch that—let me try again; I didn’t mean to come off that way”, but I’ll leave it.  It is peculiar that even in being anonymous, I feel un-anonymous; you would think that I would be more inclined to be very venomous all the time and not care, yet I do.  Weird.

{giggle} Perhaps I feel confidential!  I might, seeing as how I don’t understand the difference between the two.  ;-)  Bwaah!

Eh; I’m basically a nice and relatively stable girl.  No, rilly.  And I live well with my mistakes; I don’t have much of a choice.  And I don’t let my mouth run away with me anymore, so I guess my fingers have to sometimes.  :-)

I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow that I am not looking forward to; I have been putting this off for a long-ass time.  Augh.  But I’d like to go back to my regular physician for refills of things, and unless I want to be lambasted something fierce (ok, ok—he’d really just look at me sternly and then tell me some bad jokes), I need to go do it.  Since I’m subjecting myself to that crap, I might as well go do the ol’ yearly well woman thing, too.  Blecch.  Time for *another* lecture.  

This happens every year.  You’d think I would have learnt by now, but no.  :-)  Actually, I have a very cool, nice, highly knowledgeable gyn; he just wants me to go screw and make babies.  :-)  I must look like a breeder.  ;-)  The talk makes me uncomfortable, but I don’t want to go doctor-shopping anymore; in the past, I’ve had gyns that have told me that I make cramps up—either because I’m attention-seeking (you’d maybe have to know me to fully appreciate how ludicrous that is), or because I want narcotics.  I’m not kidding; I had three—THREE—female gyns tell me that.  The first said I was exaggerating/looking for attention (in spite of the fact that godawful cramps run on my mother’s side of the family); the second was convinced that I was trying to scam narcotics off her (and was really surprised when I shut up after she prescribed Cataflam; that stuff is *wonderful*!); the third told me (again) that I was being dramatic.  Then I found my current gyn, and he found an ovarian cyst (chocolate) almost the size of a fist that was about to rupture.  And the Mystery of the Increasingly Incapacitating Cramps was solved.

Ok, now I *will* engage in sexism:  I will never, EVER go to a woman gyn again.  Period.  Those bitches don’t know what they are doing.  My doctor felt something weird during palpation, and had me hooked up to ultrasound by the end of that *day* (let’s not even go there…the urgency of my doctor’s request made it so that I had to have a male tech, and, well, let me just say that that is not an *external* event, and the tech tried to let me do it myself, but ummm…I wasn’t able to make it happen.  The piece of Ancodia that was supposed to be cooperating with me was, ummm…uncooperative, so he had to.  AUGH!).  But Dr Gyn *personally* called the ultrasound place and made them take me ASAP.  He req’d the results back stat, and I was in surgery within two weeks, held up only because Eviljob’s Leave Centre gave the wrong fax # for the emergency leave paperwork, and my bloodwork went to the wrong hospital.  Those other bimbos had done palpation.  They had my family history.  They conducted a full exam.  I had never in my life had surgery, no hospitalisations, only one emergency room visit in my life (at that point; now I am up to a whopping TWO),  immaculate work attendance, excellent grades; anyone with an iota of psychological training could see that I don’t fit the *profile* of a malingerer, hypochondriac, or addict.  Anyone, it seems, but these ladies.  All three of them.  

I think it is a little bit of sexism on *their* behalf.  Maybe they were all blessed with easy cycles, and have gotten tired of hearing so many complaints day after day.  But my grandmother, were she still alive, could tell you how she *begged* for a hysterectomy, as did my mother’s youngest sister, to get away for the horrible cramping they had.  And my grandmother said that *her* mother and two of her sisters also had the same thing—almost literally incapacitating cramps, but short-ish cycles.  I’ve been told that it’s caused by the uterus just being enthusiastic about contracting (and Dr Gyn was able to offer some alternatives to drugs that are kind of useless to me, but I haven’t had the inclination to discuss *that* with him yet, and perhaps never will; I just thanked him for caring to try to get me off the Cataflam…sigh).  My cramps are not as bad now that the cyst is gone; they’re like they were before, but I am notorious for having a higher pain threshold.  I walk around and function with splitting migraines, I bruise myself regularly and can’t remember how I did it, etc…  Midol barely touches them, and Cataflam just makes it…easier.  Usually Cataflam makes them gone (bless you, Pharmaceutical Company), but if not, it makes them *liveable*.  I don’t have to stop (I mean literally stop walking and stand there like a damn fool for a minute or two) to let a bad cramp pass as much, and I don’t have any of the other problems one has when one’s uterus is performing Olympic-calibre gymnastic routines.  I swear to god, in my pre-Cataflam years I sometimes expected the damn thing to pop out like in Alien and start dancing around like Michigan J. Frog.  

Sigh.  I’m venting again, aren’t I?  :-)  Ok.  I’ll stop.  My point is, they should have accepted what I was saying and acted as caretakers, not as assholes. I have a long line of doctors in my family, and so from experience I say to you three ladies:  You are bad doctors.  

So *there*.  Hmmph.

Butsoanyway.

So tomorrow, I have like, general grossness occurring, and more general grossness to follow.  It looks like I have clogged ducts in my breasts (yeah, I know—TMI), but word so far is that since it’s both of them, the likelihood of it being anything malignant is slim-to-none.  My GP wanted a mammogram, but they said my breasts are still too thick (hey—you calling my breasts *fat*?!?), so they did a different procedure which is more sensitive anyway, and that came back normal.  Therefore, odd are it’s just your garden-variety clogged ducts.  

Now, what I’m squeamish about is this:  I don’t *like* the idea of surgery.  I am afraid of general anaesthesia.  The solution is to go in and surgically unclog the ducts, something that I don’t want to think about, except in very abstract terms.  I can deal, okay…but I don’t want general.  I can sit still…I just want local, or something.  Like I said, I have a high pain threshold.  But one of my father’s favourite lectures (after the State of the World Lecture and the Abuse of Antibiotics Lecture) is his Overuse of General Anaesthesia Lecture.  Followed of course by his Overuse of X-Ray Lecture.  And he’s in the running for World’s Worst Father, but he’s right about the antibiotics, the anaesthesia, the x-rays, and probably the state of the world, too.  So I don’t want any more general.  Now, how I’m going to make that happen I don’t know.  I didn’t want general for the removal of my cyst (he saved my ovary, by the way!  I have named her Millicent, and the other Melisande), but the surgeon said No Fucking Way.  No, literally—that’s what he said.  I didn’t want to find myself in a psych evaluation, so I just shut up.  Then I had to have general again for something I’ll maybe talk about later.  So in my mind, I’ve used two graces thus far; I’ll save the rest for when I’m old and decrepit and need a face lift.
  ;-)  

The second thing that I am feeling uneasy about is this:  I kind of like my breasts; I think they are pretty nice.  I’m not bragging by any means; I’m not saying they are beautiful, or anything.  But they are mine, and I like them.  But I guess they’re going to be all scarred after this.  I mean, no one sees them anymore, and no one has ever really thought they were fabulous (other than that stupid general breast fixation some men have, which doesn’t count as *actually* loving *my* breasts…*anyone* could be there, and they’d be just as happy), but I have kind of grown attached to The Girls.  :-)  I have been trying to take the attitude that scars, like wrinkles, make us interesting, but…  I don’t know.  So I’m going to have interesting breasts, I guess.  Which ultimately doesn’t matter, ‘cos I’m the only one who sees them anyway; it’s just the change.  I can understand how women must feel after a mastectomy, and as petty as I am being I know I deserve to have something horrible happen to me for getting upset over this and not just being grateful for my health, which is actually pretty excellent overall.  And I’m being a little premature, sure, because tomorrow I just meet the surgeon and he’ll give me and my records a once-over and then we schedule the actual roto-rootering or whatever, but…  I am just thinking ahead a few weeks.  Forgive my vanity, and I mean that sincerely.  I am sure that I will mention it again, so I guess take comfort in the fact that I would never do anything but think it and write it here.  I would really feel too selfish and vain to say anything to anyone else, particularly this surgeon.  I am certain he has seen things devastating enough that my issues would not even rate as a minor speed bump, and I’d probably just piss him off.  And understandably so; if I’d seen all that he has surely seen, I’d probably be disgusted at some vain little girl whining about scars also.  Boo fucking hoo.  

By reputation, he is a very good surgeon.  He was my mother’s surgeon when she had breast cancer, and he did a fantastic job on her; he did her lumpectomy and lymphectomy, and she avoided an actual mastectomy because of his thoroughness, though she has a kind of pitting or largeish indentation…it’s hard to explain, and I haven’t totally scoped Mummer’s breasts out (we’re just not that kind of family) but she sort of showed me, and told me about it, and it sure beats death.  Mummers doesn’t care.  Or, if she does, she does an amazingly good job of hiding it which, considering her, is highly unlikely; she’s pretty verbal about things she dislikes, even if they have to build up and come out as a temper tantrum, and she’s certainly had long enough to have had at least one temper tantrum yet hasn’t.  So, invoking Occam’s Razor, she doesn’t care.  Even though she was *exceedingly* upset at first that she would have to get one, she gets a kick out of the fact that she has a tattoo (a tiny dot, to mark the area from the radiation treatments), ‘cos she thinks tattoos are disgusting.  :-)  Yeah, I have a weird Mommy; if we are out and she sees a heavily-tattooed man, she’ll almost invariably lean over and whisper, “Why don’t I go over and compare tattoos with him!”.  Sigh.  :-)  

And after Mom was diagnosed, my brother dashed off an email telling me (and Meg) to go get on Tamoxifen NOW.  I didn’t, and neither did Meg.  Apparently, clinical studies have demonstrated that my taking Tamoxifen for five years before I’m like, forty or something would lower my risk of breast cancer to at or below normal rates of occurrence, despite my *increased* risk now because my mother and one of her sisters had it.  Meg and I figure that we have time; forty is a long while off.  I will get around to it, and may end up doing it after this procedure if this surgeon (and/or my gyn & GP) is of the same mind.  I guess we will see.  

I know this has been bothering me, but I did not realise that it had been bothering me *this* much.  See?  Aren’t you glad I haven’t been blogging about this the whole time?  I just told Meg tonight, and I actually did not intend to.  I was not going to say anything; it just came out.  It is bothering me, but in the grand scheme of things, it is not a big deal.  Hah.  In the grand scheme of things, this is not even worthy of MENTION; this is all completely self-indulgent.  I just get like this sometimes.  It’s a part of my personality I wish I could just excise, but…often it’s thought or written before I can recognise it for what it is and stop it.  Then I think to myself, “just delete this and don’t post it,” but were I to do that, I would have a whole three entries in this thing.  Maybe.  And I censor (and censure!) myself in every other area of life except for here.  So I’m not going to delete it and not post it.  

I haven’t talked to really anyone about this; in a way, I am fortunate that I found this before it became…icky.  I mean, I’m not errr…geez; how to be not disgusting here…showing outward signs much yet.  There.  :-)  Oh, I couldn’t have put up with this for almost two years were I to be having outward signs…that’s just too icky.  When I discovered it that long ago, it then took me several months to mention it.  I couldn’t mention it to my GP at first, ‘cos I just have a hard time.  I cannot explain it…I feel like I am whining, or something.  Plus it’s…I don’t know.  Not embarrassing, but…personal.  I have a really hard time with things that, to my tiny brain, are too personal.  So it festered and worried me for months until my well woman last year, when I figured that since he was mangling the crap out of The Girls anyway (and I was so very fearful that the ummm…evidence I did have was going to make itself known, which would be just humiliating, but it was a consideration, ‘cos he gives the most aggressive breast exam I’ve ever had in my life), I decided to ask then.  He already thinks I am weird as fuck, though I can tell he likes me.  He just stopped (still holding my left breast…d’ya *have* to do that whilst thinking, Doc?) and gave me this look (he gives me that look at least once or twice every time I see him), and asked if I was asking for myself, or for someone else.  I told him for myself; I figured that since we were already bitchslapping The Girls to kingdom come anyway, I’d make conversation (my attempt at humour…I don’t think he gets some of my jokes).  So then he goes into the “how long has this been going on, and why didn’t you tell me” mode.  I really hate that.  I have my reasons, k?  They’re superty-secret reasons, too…k?  I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you…k?  My brain only gives me reasons on a Need To Know basis…k?  Shit…I DON’T KNOW.  Just *BECAUSE*.  

He was somewhat sceptical, so I showed him proof (god, the humiliation I endure sometimes seems *boundless*), and he said it was a papilloma (I think.  I know it translated into clogged duct(s)), and he told me to go do This, That, and The Other, which I just…didn’t.  Sorry.  That one scene was all the mortification I could undergo for right then.  So then I let it bother me for a few months, and I went to my GP for something else, and can you believe that my gyn had told my GP?!?  I know they are friends (it was my GP’s referral that led me to this gyn after the crazy ladies), but what the hell ever happened to confidentiality?  So, at Dr Gyn’s behest, my GP started harassing me (as much as he harasses anyone about anything; he’s a teddy bear) every time I went to see him; he told me Dr Gyn had made him promise, and even showed me where he’d written it on the front of my chart (not that I could read it…as a doctor *and* a lefty, he has the worst handwriting on Earth).  :-)  And I say that lovingly, but I know pharmacies that have his number (as well as, I’m sure, other offenders) on speed dial for ‘script translation services, and I’m really not exaggerating.  Almost every time I cash one of his prescriptions, they ask me what it’s for; I usually tell them it’s for “a lot of whatever’s getting the highest street value at the moment”.  :-P  

Butsoanyway.  

So I told my GP that I just wasn’t dealing with the whole Let’s Hack Up Ancodia’s Breasts Thing, and so he indulged me and let me do two rounds of Levaquin, to see if that made it go away.  At first I thought it had, and I just…failed to adequately update him when I discovered that it hadn’t.  Then he flat-out asked me, and since I try to reserve lying for special occasions when it’s necessary, I ‘fessed up.  And he’s been back to harassing me ever since.  That’s why I was reluctant to see him when I was so sick before.  

Okay, so I made the app’t with the surgeon.  Maybe everyone will be happy and leave me in peace once I am all hacked up and ugly.  And I can schedule my well woman exam with a clean conscience now.  I would be afraid to miss it, in case anything *was* wrong down there, plus I need another year of Cataflam.  I’m so glad it’s generic now—diclofenac potassium—‘cos it’s a hell of a lot cheaper, should I ever quit Eviljob and lose my insurance.  I have to consider things like this.  

I don’t want to do this.  I really just don’t.  I want it to just go away.  Sigh.  I will make him schedule my surgery for a Thursday or Friday, and get the weekend off Eviljob.  At least I’ll get something out of it.  I will go to Build-A-Bear as I did for my other two surgeries, and make a stuffed animal.  :-)  That will make me happy…ier.  

Bwaah!