Post-op

I'm not really sure why I feel compelled to share stories of my bosom and the myriad insults and indignities it has endured. Perhaps this topic choice has to do with a date I went on recently. Hmm. Something to ponder.


Anyway.


Oh, stop it. We've all had a date who reminded us of a mammography machine. I'll tell you about it later.


No, later.


Moving on.


After the Rob-ectomy was performed [and sadly, no breast lift was done at the same time] I went about my business. It wasn't terribly exciting, just the usual blah blah blah of life and work; I just wasn't encouraged to play tennis for a bit. Not that I play tennis. I'm just saying. Everything was fine until a few days after the procedure. There was redness. And a bit of heat. And, well.... There was a bit of swelling. No, not the fun kind. Just on the one side. Yes, I was listing to starboard.


I'm sure you know, dearest invisibility, that this is a classic billboard for post-operative infection. I wasn't worried about it. Of course, I also wasn't too worried when Robbie could have been malignant, so maybe we shouldn't place to much weight on my level of concern. But I knew such a situation was relatively commonplace and in this day and age, an easy fix. I called the surgeon's office and learned that I could be seen by a surgical PA [physician's assistant] who just happened to be in my building's walk-in clinic for the day.


Now, I'm sure you also know that when a woman is...listing, the medical provider must examine...the whole darn prow. It's not enough to peek at one boob to determine if swelling has commenced. You gotta check out the whole rack. For propriety's sake, the PA, whose name is John, had with him a medical assistant, whose name is Rochelle. Rochelle is also a dear friend of mine. We had the exam. Antibiotics were prescribed. I was given privacy to redress myself. All very ho-hum stuff. Then I left the exam room and stopped to chat with Rochelle, and this is where it got entertaining.

Rochelle told me that she didn't think I had caught it, but after leaving the exam room with the PA, she'd said to him, in what I can only assume was a gentle and loving fashion, "John. When you're performing an exam on a woman and she's naked to the waist, don't start the conversation with, 'Well, I'm not impressed.'"

My dear friend was correct, I hadn't caught it. And even through my shrieks of laughter, I knew what John meant. Plus, I work in the same health care system, so we weren't too worried about my feelings being hurt. After regaining enough control to share this delicious kernel of silliness with four other coworkers and another physician, PA John came out of the office area to face the roars of laughter. He was a wee bit pink in the cheeks, but was a good sport about it.

A few days later, I had the follow-up exam with the surgeon. Unable to resist sharing, I told her what John had said. Let us remember, this is the surgeon who, when I brought her chocolate cupcakes, laughed delightedly upon hearing, "You're about to cut into my breast. I want you to like me." After the punchline, I can only imagine what people in the hallway outside my exam room thought. When she walked me down the hall, we ran into John, who had just finished up with another patient. My surgeon grinned and said, "Yeah, I looked at her, too, John. I wasn't impressed, either."

You have to love a good sport. On my birthday card, PA John signed his name beneath the words:

Happy Birthday, Lisa Marie. And I'm still not impressed.