Better Than A Fork In Your Tit

Conductor, when you receive a fare,
Punch in the presence of the passenjare!
A blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare,
A buff trip slip for a six-cent fare,
A pink trip slip for a three-cent fare,
Punch in the presence of the passenjare!

CHORUS

Punch brothers! Punch with care!
Punch in the presence of the passenjare!

(Click here to learn about this classic jingle, which is now. stuck. in. my. head.)

Visitors to the Boobology post will recall that I immediately scheduled a biopsy for the itsy Glob I nailed skulking around in my cleavage, actually bumping up the skin a little bit in a certain angle of light, even though the radiologist didn’t regard the thing as a panic button — just about everybody thought it looked, walked and quacked like a fatty cyst. She said that waiting to recheck it in six months was a perfectly reasonable option. I think I said “Drill the sucker.”

So for people who wonder what this experience is like, in case you or a friend ever go through it, here is how it works, at least in my neck of the woods.

You get lectured over and over not to take aspirin beforehand because it might make you bleed more. So far as I can tell, this is a mostly cosmetic concern though you could get a little hematoma if you worked at it. They tell you to wear a sport bra, to avoid jiggling. (“I have no other kind,” I said. I considered explaining the Thunder Bra to them but it would have only had curiosity value.)

The radiologist — a different one this time, equally affable, a new experience for me in the world of radiology — shot me up with Lidocaine, kind of like getting a local numbing for dental work, and explained as she went along that she was making a “nick” in the skin. I haven’t seen it yet. “Nick” is one of those vague words, you know? “How big are we talking?” I asked. “That thing is right under the surface, maybe it might just pop out, like a zit?” (It’s really about the size of a squashed Tic Tac, and a slippery little bastard, but for a moment I had a fond hope.) She demurred and warned me, as her technician worked the ultrasound machine, that I was going to hear (but not feel) a succession of noises like the sound of a stapler. She counted to three before every punch and it really did sound near as dammit like my social studies teacher’s outsize Bostitch.

 

Yes, they make a breast cancer awareness stapler. I am really sorry to have to report this.

“It’s kind of like trying to stab a grape in a bowl of Jello with a chopstick if you don’t use this kind of thing,” said the radiologist.

When I was all punched and spindled, they placed a titanium speck that acts as a marker for future imaging, kind of like the red tape the drycleaner puts on your dress to remind him there is a small stain there that needs special attention. Granted it is only a marker buoy of sorts, but the idea that I now have about one microgram of titanium in my tit makes me feel kind of bionic and glamorous.

They anointed me with benzoin (and, I think, myrrh, from the smell), taped me in two directions, put a jellybean-sized glob of Neosporin over the tape, applied a Band-Aid over the Neosporin, and stuck a little packet of frozen gel in my bra that looked like the world’s most inadequate falsie. Thus caparisoned, whiffing of exotic gums, I was freed to go, the radiologist promising a call by Wednesday at the earliest, and admonishing me to take it easy and not exercise for a couple of days.

She must have seen the look in my eyes and rephrased herself: “Well, don’t do an upper body workout.”

I’ve never been stabbed by such nice people.

I went straight to the gym, knocked out twenty minutes on the bike, a kata punch warmup, some hanging leg raises and open-closes, side stack cables for my abs and glute-hams with a forty-five pound plate. Well it wasn’t an upper body workout.

I am not sure where the falsie ended up, probably at the bottom of my gym bag, but it was more annoying than the negligible (really, nonexistent) pain from the punch. Itch is a better description. I am sure mileage varies widely. Most of the stuff you have to worry about in breasts is buried a lot further in there and they have to go in with something more like the Deepwater Horizon that would doubtless leave you a lot sorer. I put arnica on it.

This is an abundance-of-caution thing, but I did have a client who died of four years of “normal mammograms.” As I said when they started, I don’t like to fart around.

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13 thoughts on “Better Than A Fork In Your Tit

    • I can’t see taking a chance on something that’s obviously there no matter how innocuous it looks on educated guess (the excess perforation of women over false positives on regular mammograms is another subject).

  1. You wouldn’t believe how often that jingle runs through my mind. I read the Twain story in fifth grade, I think, and it has stuck with me ever since. It also stuck with these guys below, who named their band after it.

  2. Several phrases in this post – as is invariably the case – reduced me to sniggering chuckles but the phrase “Most of the stuff you have to worry about in breasts is buried a lot further in there and they have to go in with something more like the Deepwater Horizon…” takes this week’s biscuit.

    Holy cow, though, that’s one hell of a [non-upper-body] workout. I expect it helpfully took your mind off any residual pain from the boob-stapler.

    Fingers crossed that Wednesday’s news is good.

    • I probably gave myself a bigger bruise doing it, and late in the day it got kind of deep, dull sore, like any puncture wound (memories of old cat bites), but I found some bigger and better falsies in my freezer bin of cryotherapy gels and that sorted it. Also, the strips that I was supposed to leave on till Friday dropped off in less than twelve hours; since the confluence of shifting gravity with a malleable object (boob) already meant that they were really holding nothing together, it wasn’t a loss. I got one of those big Bandaids they use for skinned knees to hold the Neosporin against the nick. Which looked like a nick. Like when you bite off a hangnail.

      Think I’ll go do sleds now.

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