Blood work was cancelled late yesterday afternoon, which turned out to be a good thing, since I was supposed to be in an informal 'heritage and commmunity' meeting at the same time. Not that I want to go anywhere at the moment. I mean, if there was ever a time to shut off and shut down, this would probably be it. A nurse from the practice called at 3:35 this afternoon, waking me from my nap. And it was a properly delicious, restful nap.
I fell down the rabbit hole of research this afternoon around 'duct ecstasia' and possible treatments. My grandmother - the Wildflower of Wayne County, or the one who used to take her shotgun with her to collect her mail - ended up convincing the doctor that a mastectomy was the way forward. Initially, when I head this, I was flabbergasted. But she had this problem on and off (more 'on' in later years, even after having an hysterectomy) for over 40 years and I am not exaggerating when I say 'This is meshugas and it must stop.'
I genuinely cannot recall a time outside of having a bladder and kidney infection when I was pregnant with Fanglet - or the bleeding ulcers after said pregnancy where I have felt more demoralised and uncomfortable. I also feel incredibly self conscious, never knowing when there might be a leak or an engorgement. And it happens so fast. On Monday, the postman almost dropped his postbag, as I signed for a package. His eyes were literally the size of 50p coins.
'I don't mean to make you uncomfortable, but um...I think you have something escaping.' My breasts had literally swollen so much that they had escaped their bra cups and were training against the shirt. I sighed, pulled the sweater tight around me.
If pain is our bodies' way of communicating that there is a problem, then what do we do when there is no underlying pain to be communicated? It can't all be heartache and grief. I am not 'deep enough' waters for that kind of BS.
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