A Prod, a Poke and a Grope.

When I found a breast lump last year, time momentarily stood still. There were a few different ways this could pan out so before I let my imagination run wild I rang my doctors who were super helpful and surprisingly quick off the mark in securing me an appointment at the breast clinic within a fortnight. As a general rule I don’t rate GP’s surgeries.  The whole set up and the booking system is all wrong with not much organisation or fairness.  I actively try and avoid it because in my experience when I’ve had a pain,  a funny feeling or something weird growing off my foot, and I’ve braved the trauma of getting an appointment 4 weeks on Thursday with a locum doctor I’ve never met before, the funny feeling has gone, or my foot has already dropped off by the time I get to see someone.  One time during my long awaited appointment the doc climbed on a chair to retrieve a grubby old book from a crowded bookshelf where he looked up my symptoms and confirmed to me what I knew all along … that I’d have been better off googling it. Faster and probably more accurate and up to date than an ancient book that looked like it had been written during Medieval times and judging by the thick layer of dust  on it had had its last outing in 1962.  But on this occasion I couldn’t fault them. As soon as I explained about my boob they had been efficient, helpful and speedy in jumping into action and getting me a breast clinic appointment.

You hear of people finding lumps and having to brave a hospital visit to get it checked out but I wasn’t prepared for how much it would affect me. On the day I discovered it I awoke with a god almighty pain in my right boob, the only explanation for such intense pain was that someone had sneaked in during the night, cut it off with a pair of garden shears, beaten it to death with a lump hammer then quickly glued it back on, all while I was asleep.  After a thorough self boob examination I discovered a lump behind my nipple.  It was also very hot, like it had been on fire.  Maybe it had? Maybe the same person who was responsible for the lump hammering had also set fire to it?

On the day of the appointment I was a nervous wreck, not typical for me at all.  After waiting for nearly an hour with only my own dread as company I was shown to the specialists office where I was prodded, poked and groped by a handsome consultant before being told I’d need a mammogram and then an ultrasound. 

Sidenote-  I think boob and fanny doctors should be ugly.  I do not think it is necessary or fair that doctor school allows even remotely good looking medical students to progress in the field of lady parts.  When I am being inspected up close and way too personal, the last thing I want is a dishy bloke looking up the wizards sleeve that is now my reality following 2 children and little to no pelvic floors. Equally I do not relish a hot man’s nose being an inch away from my nipple whilst he inspects it for lumps, and probably hairs.

Following the instructions that the mammogram lady had given me was not an easy task and had me in the strangest positions, with my boob clamped in the machine I could have got a job as a contortionist.  I felt worried for the lady I’d seen in the waiting room who was around 90 years old and in a wheelchair.  God only knows what would happen there because although I’m not flexible I would like to think I am slightly more so than an elderly lady, and I really struggled. 

 Thankfully it was confirmed that it was only a cyst. A giant one by all accounts but a harmless cyst nevertheless.

Treatable by either 

Option 1- Having a ‘massive painful needle inserted into my breast to drain it, for which I would require a high pain threshold’.  A direct quote from the nurse in charge

OR  

Option 2 – Doing absolutely nothing 

A tough call, but I chose option 2

I can still feel it now and again.  Mainly at certain times in the month when my hormone levels are high and I’m at a particular part of my cycle but generally it’s fine.  It could have been so much worse and I am so grateful it was just a cyst.  It’s so important that we check ourselves regularly and make it part of our weekly routine. I’ll admit that I didn’t used to do it as often as I should have but now I do because the outcome could have been so much worse and we need to be on the ball with this stuff, especially if it means a prod, poke and grope courtesy of a handsome doctor (or an ugly one if you’re lucky).

Published by lifebyeliza41

I am a Yorkshire lass born and bred. I live there with my bearded husband, 2 beautiful if not slightly feral children, 2 crazy dogs and a lizard. I’m on honesty and not great at sugar coating, I likes to write about my family and everyday life as a mum, wife, supporter of women and my love for anything rude, lewd and inappropriate. My hobbies include fantasising about cake, reading and watching crime thrillers whilst eating cake and sneaking around during the night in full stealth mode to secretly eat more cake. You can find me on Instagram at @life_by_eliza You can find my podcast on Anchor fm, Apple Podcasts, Spotify and Google Podcasts amongst others.

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