Oh, GOD. Will I ever stop harping on the mammaries?

Note: This post was written last night Australian time. 

The other night, sitting with my laptop on my bed as I did my usual blogging ’rounds’, in the time it took to load Kerflop after I’d been to Her Bad Mother, I found a lump in my left breast.

(Yes, the pesky, naughty one.)

It had been feeling quite tender all day and more than once I got the familiar feeling that I was lactating again; that certain tissued fullness, that particular heat that radiates from within and tended to shoot up through my armpit into my bicep. So I got the idea that perhaps I should check it out, just in case. “What the hell?” I thought lightly.

Pushing deep with my fingers, past the flat top skin (which has never recovered from the nursing, I’m sad to say), down to the fatty deposits, I had no idea what I was doing, or looking for. Like most women, I dare say. Then as I lifted my arm to push deeper in the side, there it was. Something. A nodule. A cyst. Some other noun I’m not familiar with. And it was certainly sore.

So - like me – what did I do next? Blab on Facebook that I’d found a lump. Far be it for me to actually think something through before I do it. For then I got other people concerned when there was no reasonable cause to.

Cut to –> the Doctor’s. When I’m taking off my bra and Riley starts grunting and grabbing at my chest as if to say: “Stay away from those boobs – they’re mine, punk.”

“Doc probably thinks I don’t have a clue what I’m doing,” I thought. “He won’t find anything.”

But he did. “Is this tender?” he asks as he presses the spot, and my murmur of pain is all the affirmation he needs.

“It’s hormonal” was his diagnosis. “If it’s still bothering you after two cycles, come back and we’ll do an ultrasound. In the meantime, Evening Primrose Oil is supposed to help with this kind of problem.”

Which finds us at the end of my little narrative. It’s purpose? I’m still not all the sure, to be honest. I could go on at the debacle of having two tiny children clamour all over me on an examining table as the doctor is trying to asses whether Something Is Wrong. Or I could whine and say how much my breast is still sore now, two hours after the appointment (which it is).

Or I could just say that we’re six days out from Christmas and I have no freaking idea where I’m at lately, or where I’m going, and old Saint Nic better deliver in some respect, or this mama’s hitting the Boxing Day sales BIGTIME.

Or not.

I don’t know.

Is it 2008 yet?

My boob hurts.