At least, I think it’s called a lumpectomy when they remove a chunk of breast. In my case, a chunk of benign cells behaving badly.
Getting surgery scheduled ASAP was like, oh, pulling a breast out of a mammography vise. I only managed to get my slot in the OR after some kind staff member at Virginia Breast Center heard the jerking around their surgery scheduler gave me — which included the priceless line, “The system’s down and we always leave at 2 on Fridays” — and took it upon herself to get me on the books as soon as the “system” was back up so I wouldn’t have to spend the weekend in suspense and probably delay the procedure another week.
So this morning I went over to St. Francis for PAT. That’s hospital-speak for pre-admission testing: blood pressure (sky-high), temperature (normal), EKG (beating), blood work (red).
Nobody had mentioned to me heretofore that last week I should have stopped taking my vitamin D, calcium supplements, and fish oil, so whatever they were doing that will be bad for me now is done. And since my surgery is scheduled for 2:30 p.m., even if I eat dinner at 9 pm. on surgery eve, I’ll be approaching 18 hours without food or water when they roll me in, so knocking me out won’t take much effort.
I also learned I’m not having any of that minimally-invasive, less painful, faster recovery, new age voodoo stuff you see in ads.
All that gentleness is for wusses who can’t withstand a stereotactic biopsy with only a dab of local anesthesia. Not me.
My doctor is cutting into my breast with a good old-fashioned scalpel and slicing that hunk of troublesome tissue right out of there.
And if I’m not 100% unconscious when she lays into me this time, readers, you will hear my screams, no matter where you happen to be.