I haven't written a lot about Lumpy since my first (and only) post so far on the topic. There's been a couple of reasons, but I've decided that they have become less important than my need to get things off my chest (and you'll appreciate that pun if you reread this post).
In the last post, I had just gone for a needle biopsy and hadn't gotten the results back yet. They ended up coming back as atypical, which comes from the Latin meaning "hmm, we're still not quite sure what it means - we need a larger sample."
Normally, they'd do what is called a core biospy, which is where they shoot a bolt through your chest and take an actual chunk of tissue. Ok, so maybe they don't actually shoot a bolt though your chest, but the end result is that you come out of the doctors surgery having had a couple of holes where they've taken the tissue out .. while you've been fully conscious as the only a local anaesthetic, which to my mind is at least two bottles of vodka short of minimal requirements.
Because Lumpy had evaded showing up on the ultrasound, a core biopsy wasn't an option for me seeing that they need to know exactly where the darn thing is before they can harpoon it. So I had to go for Option Number Two, which is the good ole' slice-and-dice: day surgery under a general anaesthetic. Now, I've never had any sort of surgery before that's required a general anaesthetic before, so I was a little freaked to say the least.
Going back over it, I think the thing that upset me the most (besides not actually knowing what sort of lump Lumpy was) was the fact that until that point, there was no physical reminder. If I didn't prod, I could pretend that none of this was actually real. Yeah - the ostrich head in sand trick is definitely one of my favourites. And added on to the actual scar bit is the fact that it's in a place that's more personal than, say, if I'd had my appendix out. And added on top of that (we're going for three levels here, people) is the fact that although I'd told my mother and other family about Lumpy, I'd said nowt about the slice-n-dice: as far as she was concerned, it was just another biopsy (which is not really a lie - the procedure's called a tissue biopsy. I guess it sounds nicer than slice-n-dice, which proves conclusively why I should never get into marketing).
What did make it easier though was the fact that Dad was here. He'd been coming through Sydney anyway, but when I told him when the actual date for the surgery was, he extended his trip down here which really made it a lot easier. The funny thing about my Dad is that he's a man who is at work in charge of miaking some Really Big Decisions - I've seen him in action, and I was pretty impressed at how calm and in control he was (which is a suprise for anyone who's ever driven with him in peak hour traffic) - but he was just as flapped (in a way, a little bit more so) than some other people I know. It's kinda endearing. In a way, it actually helped me because while he worried about me, I could worry about him. If that makes sense. He only told me afterwards about some of his real concerns, but for all the gruff bear that my Dad likes to think he is, he's just a big teddy sometimes.
So I had the operation done on the 31st of last month, and I'm really glad that Dad was there. As much Scrubs as I watch, the reality of being wheeled down into the operating wards and poked and proded by surgeons who regard you like you're a side of meat that answers questions when asked - well, it was quite disturbing. I felt invisible.
From their point of view, I understand - they didn't need to know about me, all they needed to do was concentrate on the task which is always easier when people aren't asking questions. Hell, I would quite happily chloroform the next person who asks me too many questions when I'm at work. But from my point of view (which thanks to the surgical masks didn't involve looking up their nasal passages), not having things explained and having instead to put my trust in some people who I barely knew was, well, difficult. The anaesthetiologists, with their tube and needles of mindless happiness, were well timed. I remember trying to see if I could fight the dissolve of consciousness (it was something I always wondered from my neuroscience subjects) but I don't think I even made it to starting to count (I was planning to count in prime numbers).
They sliced-n-diced, and I woke up afterwards feeling groggy but better than I thought I'd be - I felt like I'd been drinking too much the night before, but there were no moments of 'owwwwww' like I thought there would be.
However, it's been nearly two weeks now and while most of the site is all fine and looks like it's healing nicely, there's a little section where it hasn't closed and is still oozing (yes, it's not a nice thing to know but it's the truth). It's started to be painful and while I've been back to see the doctor et al, the thought of having a hole in my breast is something that make me distinctly not-happy. I've been trying to take it easier, but occasionally I'll forget and do something that leaves me going oww, which hasn't been helped by my inability to actually tell people what's happened. Like last night - a friend of mine is in town and I couldn't go to his drinks because of Holey (notice a theme in how I name things here?) but I couldn't tell him why, and had to pass it off as an unimpressive "I'm not feeling well". I even caught up with him over a coffee earlier today and couldn't say anything when he asked me how I was feeling.
I feel pretty bad about the whole Holey thing generally - even more so because my moods are all over the place. Mostly I've been ok, but there have been a couple of days (like today) where I just feel so crap about it all that I've been avoiding people on purpose. And then not telling them why. Which just makes me look more psychotic. So hopefully this post will act as it is intended to: as my public statement that I'm not going to avoid talking about what's been happening to me (and no, I'm not going to be broadcasting it either, so don't worry) and start being more fine with it. And remind myself that I'm not my scar. And that it happened but it's past. It's actually been amusing how un-well I've dealt with it all ... or perhaps not.
As for the true identity of Lumpy? Lumpy was just some densely fibrous tissue, nothing malignant. I would love to say that I miss Lumpy, but I don't - not really. Though he'll always hold a special place near my heart.
Boom boom.
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