Mammograms, wheelchairs and complex boobs.

My boobs have been problematic from the start. They didn't even want to make an appearance for a long time, thus leaving me open to many terms of endearment such as Surfboard, during my teenage years. Not to mention that the top of my sternum and adjacent ribs like to stick out rather than curve in and I was cursing my genetic shortfalls even back then. By Year 12 they had made a half-hearted appearance and thanks to the wonders of the miracle bra I could pretend that my singlet worthy breasts actually had cleavage. I should have known from their early behaviour that they were going to be recalcitrant for years to come.

They hurt. ALL. THE. DAMN. TIME. How two somethings so tiny, could be the source of so much pain, I will never know. But when the blast of the shower hit them or the dog accidentally whacked them it was beyond painful. Nothing soothed them. Not changing my diet or scoffing Evening Primrose oil. To this day they are tender little things. Add in the sharp electrical shocks that now inhabit them, and they are a tiny barrel of laughs.

Pregnancy brought mastitis, prior to giving giving birth. Who knew that was even possible? And I lost all the skin off my left breast and had months of biopsies and painful dressings until a plane trip to Melbourne finally diagnosed an obscure dermatological issue. (It would seem that my body has always been intent on being obscure in every possible way. Thanks genetic lottery. I am reduced to using floaties/water wings in the shallow end of the gene pool.)

My boobs have been continually problematic from their lacklustre late appearance, onwards.

Shortly before I turned 30 I discovered a lump.  A trip to the breast clinic at the local hospital went from it's probably nothing, to scans, to instant review, to on the spot biopsy. Luckily, apart from a bazillion grey hairs and a good cry in my car afterwards, I got the all clear a week later. But this marked the beginning of my complex, fertile boobs, upping the ante.

Since that time I've had two "we aren't sure" lumps cut out and many more biopsied. I have been told that my breasts are a garden and Swiss cheese. I have breast tissue growing where it should not grow and incredibly dense fibrocystic tissue throughout. They are more bag of demented marbles than breasts at this point, and this means I am left with a constant quandary. If I feel a new lump should I be worried?

Since that initial concerning lump of nothingness, I have been a regular scanner. My boobs have been felt up and seen by more people than I care to recall. I did have a break at one point. There is only so much cold KY and small talk in a darkened room, whilst a stranger tries to find your backbone through your miniscule boob, that a girl can take. But the last couple of years I sucked up my pride, had a good talking to from my doctor, stopped ignoring my defunct boobage and re-entered the world of scans, mostly due to more and more lumps arriving.

Last year a week after turning 40 I found a new and unusual lump. And so I had my first mammogram, plus bilateral ultrasound, apparently with my boobs of high complexity I have to have both. Luckily that was just a large unusually shaped fibroadenoma, but it reminded me that I can't always tell by feel what is and isn't a worry.

Today I had my first mammogram in my wheelchair.

Now getting your boobs squished is not the most fun in the world. It's uncomfortable. It's awkward. When someone is trying to simultaneously fluff up and squish/stretch out your miniature mammary to try and get something to scan, it can be offputting. This is where the staff can make or break the experience. As women we have to be aware of breast health. We can't avoid it. And our minds often make the idea of a mammogram seem far worse than it is. I know the first one I took my best friend along for moral support, but this time I was far more blaze about it all.

The reality is it is quick. And chatty friendly staff make it go smoothly. Today in my chair it was more awkward, well more so for the poor technician than me. But she made me feel comfortable and at ease. It was as simple as whipping back the arms of my chair, bringing the machine down to my level and having to stretch out awkwardly in what, minus the large medical scanning device clamping down on my breast, would have been a Vogue worthy model pose.

Of course I had to wait to see if I needed more than the basic four scans thanks to my complex boobs. Though I kind of like to think of them as more enigma than complex. Like some mysterious femme fatale in a French Film Noir production. Makes it a wee bit more bearable. Really it's hard to be worried when you're thinking of your breasts talking in a deep French accent. When you have scar tissue from past surgery and dense tissue it's never straight forward. but thankfully by the time I had also moved onto the, "there's another cyst, and another, and another, and that ones awkward, and there's that fibroadenoma you mentioned and...." ultrasound, I was free to leave no more squishing required. Winning!

Whilst I was waiting in the mammography room while the scans were checked, I was amazed at how little this mammogram phased me. It really is innocuous, especially in light of the myriad of other tests I've had done, or the surprise pelvic ultrasound I had earlier in the year (Dear Doctors, tell your patient when you've added that to the list of scans needed. It's not a test you should spring on anyone). I know a lot of women put off having a mammogram, for fear of pain in particular. But it is both quick and although uncomfortable, should not be painful. The staff do this all day everyday and you are treated with dignity and there is no embarrassment. And as I found out today they are happy to work around issues like wheelchairs, and teeny tiny boobs.

So now it's waiting to see my GP for the results. 

It is easy to get caught up in a world of Dysautonomia or other chronic illness, but we also have to take care of our more general health issues, just like any other women. And as my own experience demonstrates, being young doesn't mean you can't have breast issues. So check your breasts ladies and schedule in your mammograms and ultrasounds.

Interesting sidenote: I saw graph recently that showed fibrocystic breasts were over represented in Dysautonomia patients. As was endometriosis (which I also had) and PCOS. If I can find the link again I'll post it. 

Michelle.

I really wanted to put Diana Ross' Touch me in the Morning as my musical accompaniment, especially given I had a morning appointment, but really the trick with these things is just to keep breathing, plus I love Garbage.

One of these things is not like the others.

(source)

So 40, hey? Tops right? I'm sure it is. Really I am. My sexual prime is rocking. I feel totally in touch with the womanly wonder that is me. It's epiphanies left right and centre. Glitter is thrown at my feet by kittens riding unicorns, as I stroll with confidence around my lounge room. And choirs of angels are singing about the glory that is my 40-year-old body.

Or.

I could be heading to a diagnostic mammogram tomorrow, because even my boobs are stupidly defunct. Happy 40th, now lets squish your miniature mammaries into pancakes/pikelets/poffertjes.

I actually found the lump before my 40th but just couldn't face another broken body part before I made it out of my 30s. There's a limit to the amount of decrepitude a girl can handle before she clocks over into the big leagues. You see I've been down the lumpy boob route for 10 years now. Had my first biopsy before my 30th birthday and had my first chunk of dodgy boob cut out not long after.

I've even written about my defunct boobage before.

My boob is a garden.
Garden VS Swiss Sheese: Update on "My boob is a garden".

But enough is enough. So I waited until after the big four oh, thinking it'd be nothing yet again. But it's never that simple, is it?

Remember that song from Sesame Street, "one of these things is not like the others"? Story of my life. My boobs, small as they are, may be best described as feeling like a bag of marbles, courtesy of all the cysts and fibroadenomas that rattle around in there. But every now and then, one of those marbles doesn't feel like all the others. This is one of those times.

I swear chronic illness is best defined as being felt up by strangers on a regular basis. This occurred to me Thursday, as I lay topless yet again on the table in the GP clinic. My regular GP was booked out. My back up GP had left the practice unbeknownst to me, which meant I had to risk a new doctor. Normally I'd wait till I could get into my regular GP, but sometimes things crop up and you need to be seen (or in this case before I changed my mind). So once more I found myself agreeing to be groped by another stranger.

I lay down whilst she listed off my collection, "one o'clock right breast", " four and five o'clock", "10 o'clock"..... (Is is wrong that I distract myself be thinking of the Play School Rocket Clock, every time I go through this process?). I sat on the edge of the bed. Arm up. Arm down. Whilst she concentrated on my minuscule mammaries. I sat there like the performing monkey I am. Resigned to that fact that any dignity I had is long since past.

(source)

After much in the way of arm acrobatics and going through my lengthy history, I was told that I need to be scanned.

Normally I just do an ultrasound every 1-2yrs to keep an eye on my collection. The girls are incredibly dense (aka stupid) despite being so tiny, so ultrasound is the way to go. But nope apparently that's not enough this time. Now I have to be squished and have the ultrasound. YAY.

Who even knew there were different types of mammograms? Not me. So we're skipping regular and going for the diagnostic one, because I'm special.

When I rang last week to set up my appointments, it occurred to me that you stand for a mammogram. Which could be kind of problematic given the whole 'standing ends in falling over' issue I have with Dysautonomia. I've had visions of me lying passed out on the floor my aging boobs stretched before me nipples still stuck in the plates of the machine. After pointing my dilemma out to the receptionist they have agreed that I can sit whilst they do the scan or at least in between each one. I am also wondering how they will get my concave breasts onto the plates. Surely they need something to work with?

So tomorrow my best friend is coming with me to my inaugural boob squish. If anyone can make me laugh and take my mind off it all, it's her. She's also not afraid to slap me round and tell me I am over-reacting if the need arises. Because that's what good friends do.

No doubt it'll be nothing and all my worry and stress will be for naught. Which will also shit me as I have little in the way of reserves and my neuroses should be reserved for the stuff that does matter. Wasted energy and wasted grey hairs.

How can something so small be so troublesome?

Michelle

This just seems rather appropriate today.

Apathy

I received a reminder for my now annual breast ultrasound two weeks ago.  For those of you who have read this blog for a while you'll remember that my breasts are demented.  For years now I have been popping out cysts and lumps like a crazy woman.  I had one radiologist tell me my boobs were a garden. I had my GP tell me they are Swiss cheese.  I can feel lumps and bumps.  Big and small.  New and old.

But...

It sits on the table.  Waiting.

I know I have to get it done.
I know I have to become a teaching tool once more at my local radiology office.
I know I have a hope in hell of detecting a new potentially bad lump in a forest full of pretenders.
I know my GP will yell at me yet again for my apathy.

But......

I am over being scanned, poked, probed and examined.
I have had my fill of doctors.
I have had my fill of pills and potions.
I am over being a pharmaceutical guinea pig.
I am over shelling out money hand over fist, for no answers, or solutions.
I have had my fill of bad news.
I have had my fill of no news.
I have had my fill of being unique, unusual, weird, strange, and all the other descriptives that come my way.
I am over being told "I have no idea", "there is nothing I can do", "I've never seen that".

I am over new diagnoses.
I am over no diagnoses 
I am over new symptoms.
I am over the word 'idiopathic', the fall back for doctors who have given up.

I am over a diary filled with nothing but doctors appointments.

I am tired.

I need a break.

But....

I will call the radiology office.
I will make the appointment.
I will call my GP.
And, I will make that appointment.
And I will take my medicine.

Because...

Just in case.
You never know.
Maybe this time.
What if?

And then apathy wins.
But I wont.

(find out more here)

*Update: It can be hard to maintain the medical momentum when you are chronically ill.  But sometimes you just have to suck it up and do it. So I made the call, and am now booked in to be scanned.  

Garden VS Swiss Cheese: Update On "My Boob Is A Garden"

First I'd just like to say a big "Thank You", to everyone for their kind messages, emails and comments on my last little vent about my decrepit boobage. They were very much appreciated. I think I'd just reached the "you have got to be kidding me" point and needed to let it all out.  Probably with a touch of too much information but hey, it''s not like it's the first time I've gone down that path.  Just once I'd like to see a medical professional who says, "your [insert body part] is perfectly normal".  Just once.  Is that really too much to ask?

Apparently the answer to that question is a big fat, "YES".

I have decided I need to send an official letter of complaint to my parents to chastise them for their piss poor procreation efforts. I've said it before and I'll say it again, perfunctory sex is bad. Look at me. This is what happens when you put a decided lack of effort into your boudoir shenanigans. Yes Mum and Dad I am talking about you. I am the product of meh sex. Really that's the only explanation for a body which is dodgy at every level.

I went back to my GP today to get the formal results. Picture the scene. Nice clinic. Picturesque scenery in the beautiful moutains surrounding Melbourne. Tree ferns at the window. Rosellas and King Parrots flying through the air. Lovely GP, who I'd recommend to anyone, grabs the ultrasound report. Puts it on her knee. Looks up.  Stares me in the face and says incredulously, "Oh my God".

Yep that's right. "Oh my God". Always a good start. Why yes my boobs have been busy as the long paragraphs of Time New Roman size 12 now officially report. Not content with one weed, or two, or three. My booby garden has popped out 10, yep 10, new and exciting varieties of weeds, not including my escapee bits of boob inhabiting my body from my knee cap to my ear lobe. Yes, yet again I am a reject.

I am grateful that they are not of the particularly noxious variety and can thus stay where they are for the moment. But geeze Louise, is it really that hard to have a normal body part? Apparently once more my decrepitude is of the gold medal variety.  I have declined the kind offer of being poked with multiple needles in the boob and taken the "keep and eye on them" approach to management.

She did laugh when I said the radiologist had told me that my boob was a garden. Though she thought it had more of a "Swiss cheese" quality. I shall never look at a block of Jarlsburg the same way again. "Garden" or "Cheese", these are my choices. 

I was also given more of a tsk tsking, and have been told that I need either 6mth or 12mth ultrasounds from now on. I also get to start the joy of mammograms at age 40. Though, as I have decided to stay 35 and will have "30faux" birthdays from now on, I may never have the joy of seeing my piklets squished between the vice of the mammogram.  She did take the time to point out that the girls were of the more petite variety, because of course I hadn't noticed, and may be difficult to scan.  Small, weedy, Mini Babybels, who aren't even up to the task of being squished.  I am beyond expletives now, and am on the path of resigned sighs of acceptance with a side of defeat.

So yet again I am a resident of the quaint town of Freakville.  If anyone knows where I can buy tequila by the gallon let me know.  Home delivery would be a bonus.

Thanks
Michelle

My Boob Is A Garden

It's been one of those days.  One of those days where you just say "fine", sigh, assume the position, and brace for the pointy end of the pineapple that you know is coming.  Today I was told my boob was a garden.  Yep.  A garden.  How do you respond to that?  I knew they could cause earthquakes, bring men to their knees and fill out a training bra nicely.  But a garden?  No.  That's a new one.

Today was yet another fun scan day.  Not an MRI today, for which I gave praise to every deity known to man.  Today was boob ultrasound day.  YAY. 

 

(photo)

I have bodgy boobs.  I've always had bodgy boobs.  Over the years I have had many a cyst or suspicious fibroadenoma either biopsied or whipped out.   So when I felt something whilst I was doing my daily ablutions I just said meh and kept on scrubbing.  Hence it has taken me a while to get my butt into action.

When you're chronically sick you pick the most pressing problem and forget the rest.  So I may be a year, or five, overdue for my yearly ultrasound.  Oh and haven't my boobs been busy during that time.  They have been fruitful and multiplied, like randy little rabbits.  If nothing else at least I know I don't have lazy boobs.


Fantastically, I had the joy of the student radiologist feeling me up.  Apparently I am a fantastic teaching tool and provided a community service today.  My boobs are both Einstein and Mother Teresa all rolled into one. 

I got to lie there exposed to the world as the radiologist and her learner driver rolled goop all over my petite mammaries.  All the time going "Ooooh", "Ahh", "Look at that", "Wow look at that".  I did get a little miffed when they started to say "Well that one could go either way".  You know, that's not what I want to hear as they are looking at the girls. 

So I found out today that I have multiple abnormalities growing away happily.  Should be a bumper crop in the garden this year.  I also found out I have ectopic boob tissue.  So not only was my uterus not bright enough to keep itself in one place (hence the endometriosis) apparently my boobs are equally inept. 

I have boob tissue growing everywhere from my arm pit to my knee cap.  Okay the later may be an exaggeration, though not by much, and it would explain why my knees are so perky/knobbly.  It's mixed up in my lymph nodes and in my muscle tissue.  Basically my boobs are dumbarses.  As, Mr Grumpy said, "if it's growing everywhere, you'd think at least some of it would grow in the right place".  Ha ha Mr Grumpy.  You are hilarious. 

The experience was also punctuated with me making mad dashes to the loo to throw up and evacuate my nether regions thanks to Bob.  Tops!  Mind you the radiologists did end up putting on their jumpers and turning the aircon on for me so that's a bonus right?  So now more waiting for results.

My body is officially one of the fish that John West rejects.

Pass the tequila.

The gardening Michelle.