I used to think that mail carriers had it hard, what with the delivering the mail no matter what thing. That was before I started blogging, though. Now the postman can suck it up, because it’s far worse being a blogger. I skip one day and my mother calls to make sure I’m not dead. Sheesh.
Sometimes I skip a day. I’ve noticed that it doesn’t seem to alter the rotation of the earth any, so I thought it was alright.
But hey, it’s nice to feel loved.
Now, let me tell you what a moron I am. (That’s why you came, right?)
Saturday, I decided it was time to stop laying around like a slug and Go Do Something. So I Went And Did Something for the entire day. Which–okay, in retrospect–may not have been quite the way to ease myself into a higher activity level. I never claimed to be all that bright, especially when it comes to self-care.
A friend of mine had been given a “get out of jail free” card by her husband, and granted an entire day to abandon her family and go do… whatever. This is an interesting concept to me because I no longer have to answer to anyone; if the kids are with me, I’m in jail, and if they’re with their dad, I’m freeeeeeeee! (Wait, that came out all wrong.) Anyway. She collected me and we spent the day out gallivanting. I didn’t think it was particularly stressful or exertion-filled to go shopping and walk around and eat my weight in warm bread at a restaurant with cloth napkins, but by the time I got home in the evening I was dreaming of the sweet release death might bring.
I crawled into my family room and lay down on the couch. Once there, I considered just going to sleep for the night. Of course, it was about 5:30, so I felt a little bit silly. Also I ultimately decided that dying would be a poor choice, because then I’d miss the Oscars tonight.
So last night, I didn’t blog, not even about my exciting day out, because I was busy with the hard work of Not Dying. Also I was busy with the Trying Not To Freak Out.
Because, um, see, I had my biopsy on Wednesday and that was all fine and good. I was tired and sore, and that was fine. And then after I spent the day out (and upright) on Saturday, I became a tad alarmed. At some point after I decided not to die, I figured I’d get ready for bed. Well. While changing into my pajamas I noticed that, um, well, things were Not Well in Boobland. Oh, was I bruised. My bruises had bruises, and I looked terrible and felt worse. SO sore. SO tender.
A quick mental recap didn’t reveal any full-contact activity undertaken during the day, so then I spent some time making sure no one had hidden any peas under my mattress. You know, because I didn’t want to throw my back out as well, on top of everything else.
Well that was all quite disturbing and gross, but it got WORSE! Yay! (Dad, skip the rest. Get a cup of coffee or something. Nothing to see here.) I was putting my clothes in the hamper and saw blood on my bra, so I figured I should probably make sure my stitches weren’t coming apart or whatever. Only, I couldn’t figure out where the blood had come from, because everything still looked the same and no bloodier than before.
I’ve already described more than any normal person wants to know, so I’ll cut to the chase here and say that it didn’t take too long to determine that the good news is that my incision is fine. The bad news is that the blood was (is) coming from within a duct. (Now, if you’d like a positive spin, it’s this: Hey! I’m no longer oozing pus! Now I’m just BLEEDING FROM MY NIPPLE! So much better!)
A smart person would’ve called the doctor, I guess. But here’s what I did. I said, It’s late on a Saturday night, and I don’t want to bother her because, basically, I’m fine. I will call tomorrow.
When tomorrow (today) rolled around, I slept late, puttered around for a bit, fell asleep again, and basically just figured what the heck, I may as well wait until Monday morning.
So if my breast falls off tonight, or something, I’ll have no one to blame but myself. But I hate calling doctors on evenings/weekends unless it’s really an emergency. And this isn’t an emergency, this is just my stupid body being melodramatic. “Look at ME! Pay attention!” So I will call tomorrow. And maybe she will tell me it is all fine and dandy to be… ummm… leaking a little blood. I hope.
Anyway. I always feel the need to balance out a bit of bad news with some good news. The good news is that I found a package of Sour Patch Kids inside an unopened plastic egg from last Easter. Wasn’t that lucky? Sometimes it takes very little to make me happy. Sour Patch Kids are the perfect Oscars food. Unless you’re one of those celebrities that gets to go to the banquet where you have truffles and caviar shaped like little Oscar statuettes, that is. And I don’t even like caviar, so really, this is better.
I remember my OB telling me after my third c-section that when you see a little blood, that’s GOOD. Your body is doing it’s job. Lots of blood? NOT SO GOOD! But it sounds like you’re not panicked about it. Hell, you’re watching the Oscars (which I’m TiVoing by the way) and eating Sour Patch Kids. You got to do some fun things this weekend, and I am SO jealous. I’m glad you’re back from that long period of not-blogging. I was beginning to wonder if you’d overdosed on Advil!
Um, ew? And once it gets this late, you probably are better off going to bed. But yuk on the blood thing. And how on earth are you going to put a bandaid there?
Bleeding from your nipple? Yeah. That doesn’t sound good but it might be normal. Call the doctor first thing tomorrow just for your peace of mind….Sorry.
My friend had this weird experience where she got a brain tumor and the medication they gave her made her lactate. And it was totally fine, according to the doctor. Maybe boobs just do weird things we haven’t heard of before.
During the delightful days when I was pumping breast milk for my babies (neither of whom was able to latch on correctly), I would occasionally pump orange milk. No, not the nipple bleeding, but a duct! And while it was freaky, it was apparently normal. Go figure.
I hope your dad heeded your warning and stopped reading . . .
Geeze, Mir. Call your doctor. They get the big bucks to be on call, and they don’t like sitting around while on call doing nothing. So call. Nipple bleeding isn’t a good side effect a biopsy. Please, promise to call?
I am so glad you got out and that you are okay. Sorry to hear bout the bleeding boob…call the doc first thing tomorrow.
I have only been reading your blog for a week or 2, but I admit I was worried about you! Hang in there!
Um, you are calling your doc right now, right?
Attention: Mir’s boob — Enough already. You have had your moment of stardom. Please return to being a nice, quiet, peaceful boob, one that doesn’t turn funny colors or exude disturbing fluids. Mir’s a lovely lady, and she really doesn’t deserve such disrespect from her own boob, particularly when she’s in training to do a charity walk for good of all boobs. So just quit it. And other boob? Don’t even think about it.
Respectfully, Summer (and her boobs, who are perfectly content to just go for a simple little ultrasound every six months to check on their charming little cysts)
I expect they excised the source of the green goo, and this blood is just nomal wound oozage from any surgery – but escaping via the duct formerly fed by green goo.
Yes, you can take the day off. We’ll get used to it. BUT when you do it after surgery we tend to worry. Don’t let us guilt ya’ though.
What a great story Woulda:
I am linking part of it to my blog unless you object. If you do, please let me know. I think it is a nice juxtaposition between the two different mediums of communication and communication is an important topic to me. Thank you, Sincerely, French Indian
You are probably now dreaming of a time when your boob is not blog fodder. Are you really that calm? I hope I’d respond like you have. Feel better soon.
I haven’t notice an alteration in the turn of the earth either, but I am concerned for you. I hope you are at that doctor’s office right now. My thoughts are with you.
I hope your boob is getting better, Mir. Bleeding nipples are a bummer, for sure. Since the tissue there is ductal it’s probably not a problem that there’s blood oozing out but seeing a doctor is definitely a good idea!
Michele sent me by to check up on you. I hope you’re feeling better, Mir!
By now you should know that the best way to coerse me to read something is to say “Dad, don’t read any further…go get some coffee…”.
I’m fine…now that I’ve regained consiousness. David thought I dropped something but I assured him it was just my head clunking against the floor. OK. No harm done.
Women are too complicated.
Listen, you. . . . take care of yourself. Do you not fully realize how absolutely precious you are? Jeepers, Mir, what would we DO without you? So mind me when I tell you to be gentle with yourself. Don’t make me come out there and take care of you! Hey, on second thought. . . . .
Sour Patch Kids?
That IS good news!
Mamacita – you are aptly named. But then, you probably looked into the mirror and named yourself, huh? Just goes to show that you are a good judge of character. :)
And as for my darling daughter, I’ve tried to be patient, but enough’s enough already. So, a new rule forthcomes. Nor more green goo, no red drippings, no blue spots, no orange milk, even. Cut it out! You’re making us all worry altogether tooooo much!
And speaking of much –