Tat In A Ringer

I woke up in the middle of the night a week or so ago and my left tat felt like like somebody had stomped on it with steel boots.

Funny, the last time that happened was at a Phi Delt mixer. But this time nobody was drunk and I wasn't wearing that Clockwork Orange inspired rubber dress that was so ahead of its time.

It was three in the morning. Poker After Dark time. I'd fallen asleep around 8:00 PM, watching yet another cable broadcast of an NCIS rerun Actually the pain of my boobula wasn't what first woke me up. These days the painful need to pee takes precedence. Only after getting out of bed did I experience the poke poke poke of discomfort unique to anyone born with female breasts as original equipment. The pain was significant enough for me to say out loud as I took my place on the throne, "Owww! WFT?"

Had I fallen on a cactus plant? Had some animal locked its jaws on the last remaining piece of unbaked skin on my body? Was I part of some S&M initiation that nobody told me about? Seriously, let me know next time.

Whatever, it felt like a flaming goldfish was swimming around in my mam glands. A fish on fire. EWWWW. It was seriously creepy. So much so that I was too freaked out to touch it again. Like not touching it would make it go away.

As soon as the doctor's office opened, I called to schedule a mammogram, but the rules say I had to see the doc first. The docs have a need to confirm what you already know before they let you get help. She said something like, "Yes, you have a large mass in there." I don't think calling it a "goldfish" is a medical term. At least I got my appointment for a slam bam thank you mammogram with a side order of ultra sound.

For any men who haven't left the room yet, let me enter the world of TMI to help you understand the one of a kind experience of a mammogram. It's not too hard. Just imagine what slamming your cockatoo in a car door would feel like. The bad news is that it really hurts. The good news is that it only hurts for a second or so. A very long second. Long enough in my case to squeeze the snot out of whatever evil goldfish alien was swimming around in there. By the time I got to the ultra sound portion of the day's festivities, that big honking creature was down to the size of a dime.

"Looks like a cyst," said the doc. 99% of the time, things that look like cysts are cysts. Which means they aren't full of cancer, they're full of liquid. The way they find out is to stick a needle in the thing that looks like a cyst and see what they catch. If no liquid comes out, a biopsy needle goes in. For some reason, they couldn't find out if it really was a cyst for another week. I think because that would be way too easy.

So yesterday they stuck me with Lidocaine, then stuck the apparent cyst with a needle. I watched the ultra sound machine while they were doing the procedure. They took a bunch of still pictures as they went -- none of which I'm posting here. Ta-da, it really was a cyst. They sucked out the bug juice until everything disappeared. Hasta la bye bye. But they want me back in six months as punishment for not having had a mammogram in way too long.

Somebody remind me in August.