Warning: this post will contain references to my right breast (or the mole that used to live under it). Any family members out there that read my blog who might be uncomfortable with that, please just wait for my next post (it’ll be about Paris and have nice pictures, promise). To all my friends- well, it ain’t any worse than what you’ve heard come out of my mouth before.
It all started with a little mole that I noticed after taking a shower one day. It was dark, it was fairly new and it wasn’t all nice and even. But it was small and I didn’t have insurance, so I figured it could sit there for a while. I’m certain it grew a little over time, but it wasn’t as big as a pencil eraser.
Fast forward 2 years (yes, I know, too long to wait). Armin scheduled a dual appointment with his dermatologist. Because, you know, like most people in places like Germany where people have easy access to good affordable healthcare, he goes in regular intervals to the dermatologist. I show the ugly bugger to the doctor, who decides that although it doesn’t look to be too bad, it should go. Why? Because it is in an awkward spot and he already has to cut a good portion around it, but if it were to grow much bigger, then it would be much more complicated because he’d have to cut into my boob or something. At least, I think that’s what he said. He was speaking in German. And not just plain old German, He’s Schwabish- a totally different dialect that is insanely difficult to understand because they all kind of mumble and talk fast (imagine a non-English speaker trying to understand Ebonics).
So last week we go for our appointment. Did I mention I’m a terrible patient? I can’t deal with the sight of my own blood. I want to vomit or pass out. I also have incredible anxiety when I have any sort of procedure done. To the point where my Ob/gyn sedated me once. So there I am, praying to God that I don’t puke on myself, literally grabbing the table that I’m laying on. Shaking like a leaf- not because I’m cold- although that would be possible as I’m just laying there topless (it’s a whole different immodest world over here, y’all). I watch the doctor come in and he goes to the sink. And he uses some sort of hand sanitizing liquid. No, he did not WASH his hands. Just rubbed the mystery solution all over them. When I say I was horrified, I mean, I was FROZEN in fear. My God, was this man going to touch me with one of those dirty hands covered in mostly dead germs????? He treats patients with Herpes for f***’s sake!! I wasn’t sure what I could do about it. If I said something would he get angry? Leave me with some garish scar? I mean, he was cutting under my boob- did he know how make it hang a little more lop-sided? Then I saw him open the package of surgical gloves. To my relief, he at least put those on correctly. I think I would have died if had messed up that process. I mean really. I would have had to say something, or just leave. Just leave and find another doctor.
The actual procedure was only as bad as I assumed it would be. I felt minimal pain thanks to a local anesthetic. But I could feel the knife against my skin, and then him tugging my skin with the stitches. I could also hear them talking, and then something with the last stitch wasn’t right and he had to cut it and do it again. I just wanted to die. I mean seriously y’all, I know it’s all in my head, but it was just horrible.
Of course, the horror and humiliation live on. Because of the location of the stitches, I can not wear a bra. I do NOT have small boobies (they just look small in comparison to the size of my big ass). The last time I was out in public without a bra I think was 7 or 8 years ago. Some things just aren’t meant to co-exist: my boobs and a bra-less lifestyle are in that category! All movements= jiggling. Jiggling skin that is attached to the stitches- maybe you can guess how good that felt. So the next day, I send the Hubs to the pharmacy to get an ACE bandage so I can at least control the girls, if they can’t get the support they are used to. The pharmacist who is a bit of a douche, refused to sell it to him. He stated that it wouldn’t work and I didn’t need it and I should wear a sports bra. If I could wear a sports bra, don’t you think I would be doing that by now, ya big idiot?!? I eventually made it to a different pharmacy, was waited on by a woman and got what I needed.
This one inch incision has been driving me bonkers for exactly one week!
Anyway, that’s my story about how after only a year in Germany, I’m becoming some sort of bra-less hippy. Darn.