I think my left boob is the one part of my body that remained Catholic. It manifested a miracle twice in a day.
I was tweezing my eyebrows in front of my full-length mirror this morning when I noticed some dark red spots at left boob level on my tight fuchsia t-shirt. The spots grew bigger as I looked, so I decided to investigate. Lo and behold, there was a rivulet of blood slowly traveling south.
My first reaction was pure poetic melodrama: “My breast is weeping a single crimson tear. How à-propos!”
My second reaction was to notice the visually aesthetic effect of the viscous scarlet upon white. I got an idea for a painting.
Then it hit me that my boob was bleeding. “John! My boob’s bleeding!” My darling hubby was more upset than I was, and he helped patch me up. He was upset that the puncture wound from Friday’s draining procedure opened up and let blood flow so freely. There was enough to fill a small shot glass. I figured that it’s probably positive for the blood to come out. What’s the alternative? It accumulates under the skin and results in more pain and inflammation? Maybe it’s good to have a little release?
I called the hospital and begged the secretary to schedule an appointment for me as soon as the good Boob Doc is back. She promised that she would have my contact nurse give me a call. I waited all day in vain, to my great surprise. (Sarcasm intended.)
I went about my day with a band-aid and a supportive sports bra to keep that little sucker from bleeding. The good news is that I have had very little pain for the past two days, even without the pain killers. I wonder if the gabapentin interrupted the pain feedback loop long enough for my body to forget being in pain. Maybe it distracted my neural circuitry. Or maybe it was draining all that pus that did it? In any case, thank you, dear Lord for taking the pain away!
This afternoon, just before the kids came home, I was stretching my arms ever so cautiously. I felt something wet dribbling down my boob. I had taken the sports bra off ten minutes earlier because I just couldn’t stand that squooshed-up feeling anymore. Sure enough, my left boob was bleeding again. The blood circumvented the band-aid, so I peeled it off and found a washcloth to soak the whole mess up. John was not impressed when he came home. I was too woozy to care. Yes, the sight of blood can make me woozy.
My dear sister Christianne, who has a wry sense of humor, called to check on me. When I told her my story of the bleeding boob, she said something along the lines of, “It sounds like when those statues of the Virgin Mary bleed. This is a miracle. I think your boob is manifesting stigmata.”
“You’re right! My boob is doing this in honor of the Vatican Conclave! It’s a miracle, a holy miracle. I am blessed and chosen.”
Enough blasphemy for tonight. I’m pretty sure we’re going to hell for this, but at least we’ll be giggling together.