Champion of the world!

Thank you all for your kind words and positive thoughts. They made such a difference!

Today, My Guy drove me, El Cysto, El Nino, and Antoine the TBD Breast Lump through a foot of snow to go get our aspiration and biopsy on.

Now, not to brag, but …
If growing cysts were an Olympic sport? I would totally be a gold medalist. And the peoples would carry me on their shoulders through the streets, causing my cyst-laden boobies to bounce painfully.

Between El Cysto and El Nino, the doctor removed 75 cc’s of liquid.

That’s a third of a cup of liquid that was stretching my skin and generally just being a bitch. And the cysts kept refilling while they were being aspirated. Like, the doctor, the tech, and I were all laughing because it was so absurd. And if I didn’t laugh, I would cry hysterically. If the cysts just never stop refilling, my initial idea to just live with them doesn’t seem to be doctor-approved. I would have to have the cysts surgically removed.

Dude. I’m fucking getting married. Fat fucking chance.

And then Antoine? He’s still of unknown origin. They poked around and finally vacuumed him out.

Seriously. For a moment, I thought that I should have totally been like Dalton in Roadhouse and been all, “Pain don’t hurt” and do it myself with the trusty 30-year-old Electrolux. Surely there’s an attachment for this, right?

But I was already there, so I just let the doc do it. Then, they inserted a piece of titanium into Antoine’s former home, so they can track it via mammogram. Then the tech wiped all the blood and goo off of my chest, wrapped me in an ace bandage, and sent me home.

I made My Guy stop on the way home so I could get a cheeseburger and fries. For someone who hardly ever eats meat, I have an alarming track record of requiring burgers when faced with health challenges.

So I got a week’s worth of sodium from one convenient meal, went home, and went to bed. One of the doxies smells like fish, and the labradoodles are tracking snow everywhere. I have to wear the bandage for 24 hours, and I’m supplementing my much-needed Tylenol with much-needed red wine. But mostly? Mostly, I’m relieved, and exhausted. And really tired.

But it’s the exhaustion of a champion.

Mark Spitz and his bitchin’ ‘stache courtesy of si.com.

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