Tuesday June 3, 2008
When I got to it I really didn’t want to go to the hospital today. No matter how small the job, surgery is surgery, and it’d be rather odd to claim you were looking forward to it, or enjoyed it.
However, the procedure took less than ten minutes from going into the op. room, sitting on the trolley to sign the consent form, feeling the ‘ting’ of the local anaesthetic and the five punches of the sample tissue extractor device. No pain or distress, though I did need a steadying hand from the theatre nurse when I sat up afterwards, just for a minute while I got my bearings.
I’ll be called back for a consultation when the biopsy is done, in about three weeks.
So I enjoyed my post-procedure cup of hot tea–black, no sugar–was signed off by the ward sister, and ushered out. Almost all of the three hours was spent sitting in waiting rooms and in the day ward, waiting to be picked up and put down again as the day surgery conveyor belt dictated.
Nothing to fear, then. Except that anything to do with breasts carries a burden of ignorance and fear with it, for men as for women. It’s worse for women in my view–breasts are an important part of femininity and female identity. For men, well, they’re an amusement at best and an embarassment at worst. Unless there’s a darn good surgical/medical reason to go a’cutting, I shall leave the darn thing alone as a mark of life. Rather like wrinkles, in a way.