So obviously I survived the boob procedure (If you're new here, first, let me apologize for the fact that you found your way here on my boob post (I like how I made that singular, as if I haven't written about boobs 20,000 times). If you want to know what is going on, I highly recommend clicking here or here and reading that first. Not that there won't be humor found in the story without knowledge of why it's happening. If you're sick and cruel like that.)
Note to one and all, if you're not into boobs, come back tomorrow. I have a very special Thanksgiving post prepared. I know you're all spending time with your families, but
some of us aren't, so keep us company at least come by on Friday.
Anyways, back to the boob procedure, or boocedure
The doctor began by drawing all over my boob and then draping me so that the field would be sterile. At this point, the nurse took a picture, to which I said, "this better not show up on the internet" and absolutely no one laughed. I swear to all that is good and sacred, my frankenboob* had better never show up on the internet.
(*I called it Frankenboob to Slappy last night and he looked at me and said, "no honey, it's not Frakenboob. It's Frankenboob's monster." Asshole.)
After a good cleaning she brought out with what seemed like a HUGE needle and my useful husband made sure that I knew it. The doctor reassured me that just the middle part was large and the needle was small. And that perhaps I should throw my husband out. I did not.
So she stabbed me a bunch of different times to numb all the depths of my boob. The shots weren't terrible and since they've now worn off, I'm remembering just how freaking awesome they were. After numbing it down all the way she starting a very subtle cutting. Honestly, I wouldn't even know that she was cutting if she hadn't put a MIRROR across from me. So I got to watch the entire event. Dear Doctor: do not put mirror in the procedure room of the office. Thankyouverymuch.
So after hacking out of what we imagine in scar tissue (I got myself engrossed in a conversation about dentistry with the nurse) and cutting open the sides of the boob hole, she began the stitching. The part I thought I would be freaked out about by the most, ended up being totally not bad at all (I know you're all shocked at my over-exaggeration). We didn't ask how many there were in all, but I'd wager about 8 bright blue stitches to close the hole properly.
I have to go back on Tuesday afternoon to have her look at it, but the stitches won't be coming out for a while. Which means quick showers, no baths. And sports bras again. And no alcohol, advil or aleve.
Slappy and I had to shake on a hitting embargo because, well, we hit each other. Not in the spousal abuse kind of way (mostly), but like he's obnoxious, so I hit him. And he does not like being hit, so he hits me back. This cycle repeats every time he's obnoxious, which is like 30 times a day. However, Slappy is not reliable when it comes to not hitting me in injured places. He's already messed with it twice ("accidentally"). So we made a deal where I wouldn't hit him and he wouldn't hit me. And um, internets, my husband is freaking obnoxious. I never realized just how often I had to hit him for obnoxiousness until I couldn't. It's a lot. Just so you know.
Since coming home from the boob doctor I've eaten lunch and then taken a nap. I went to sleep with a totally numb boob and woke up with the boob of fiery pain. So I'm going to go find a non-Aleve way to deal with that. Right now I'm thinking of manually cutting off the nerve between my boob and brain, but I'm sure when my husband wakes up he'll have some other helpful suggestions.