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.