Man-O-Gram Part I
At this year’s World Horror Convention I did my first reading. I read my story “Man-O-Gram,”first published in Morbid Curiosity #8. Morbid Curiosity, a non-fiction market for true life tales of horror, sadly came to an end with it’s tenth issue, but copies of issues #3-10 are available at the website. Though this violates my rule on sustaining the author’s mystique, I thought that I would print the story here.
The plastic plate of the x-ray machine lowered with a whir as I stood against the cold metal beast, naked from the waist up. All I could do was stare at my breast while it was positioned to be compressed between the plates wondering “how the heck did I get here?”
Early in her pregnancy, my wife’s doctor diagnosed her with a condition called placenta previa. While the doctor explained to both of us the nature of the condition, all I heard was “You can’t have sex with your wife.” Seven long months later, my wife was still recovering from her C-section. As a first time mother settling into a routine of nursing, any broach of her bosom area was met with the rebuke of “Those aren’t for you” and my hands getting slapped. At that point, I didn’t trust myself bumping into furniture. My Saturday nights were reduced to TV watching and cold showers.
Before the Divinyls’ “I Touch Myself” gets cued, let me get on with my story. One day in the shower, I spied my wife’s breast self-examination chart. Okay, it had been there the length of our marriage, but every time I stepped into the shower, all my mind registered were pictures of breasts and every time it took a minute for me to realize why they were there. Today was different. I looked around (because that’s what you did when you are about to do something potentially embarrassing) and performed the self-exam.
I felt a lump.
Now would also be the time to mention that I suffer from hypochondria. Unfortunately, it was matched by my great dislike for doctors, so I sat around a lot obsessing about what I might have, while not actually going anywhere to do anything about it.
I noticed a pain in my bosom (I’m trying to say bosom as often as possible, not necessarily to avoid offending anyone, but to try and hide my soon-to-be-copious use of – read: obsession with – the word “breast”). The pain was so great, I decided to ... call my sister. This wasn't as bad as it sounds: my sister was in nursing school. (Well she was taking English and speech and other pre-requisite stuff.) She told me that it might be an ingrown hair or an infected spider bite. So I was like “cool”.
The next day, the pain in my bosom woke me up. I decided to squeeze my breast. White liquid started came out from around my nipple. And it hurt. A lot. I spent the rest of the day laying around in pain. My wife was in full, but loving, harangue mode about how I ought to go to the doctor.
Two days after I first discovered the lump, I finally went to my doctor. It was a Friday. She poked, prodded and squeezed my bosom. (Yes, my doctor is a woman. I know that there are various schools of thought on the subject, and while I am by no means a homophobe, if someone is going to touch me anywhere near my naughty parts, it is going to be a woman. Okay, maybe that came off more homophobic than I wanted.)
"How long ago did you notice the lump?" she asked.
“While I don't make it a practice to play with my breasts often, the best I could tell you was when I noticed the pain.”
She sat across from me with her best grave "I have something serious to discuss with you" face. “There are three possibilities:
“1) It could just be an infected cyst.
“2) It could be breast cancer.
“3) It could be a benign brain tumor.”
Things became rather hazy at that point, though I remember how she emphasized the word “benign” as if that would help when accompanied by the words “brain tumor.”
My mind locked up with competing thoughts, trying to grasp the enormity of what I had just heard. Cancer didn't run in my family. However, I worked in an environmental toxicology lab and had sort of resigned myself to the possibility that any of the numerous chemicals I am exposed to might give me cancer. I mean, newspapers can report all they wanted about how coffee might cause cancer, but I worked with some chemicals labeled “mutagen.”
I managed to ask about the whole brain tumor thing. My doctor said that there was a type of tumor that caused the brain to screw up one’s hormonal levels which would explain - how did she put it? - “I’m not positive that you are simply discharging pus.” Tip-toeing around it, trying her best to cushion the news - emphasizing that now is not the time to panic - only panicked me more. She finally said the magic words: “You may be lactating.”
“Lactating?” I asked.
“Lactating.”
Sometimes a circumstance can hit you that was so absurd, all you can do is laugh. I’m all for extreme support in marriage; for example, when my wife had her gestational diabetes, I gave up desserts. But I didn't think I had ever identified so much ... I didn't think I had ever been so jealous ... I didn't think that I was so sympathetic as to start lactating on her behalf. I mean, I got up in the middle of the night to take care of the boy (okay, I was usually already up, but the thought was the same). But that was to change a diaper. If he were hungry, I was good with getting him a bottle. Being too lazy to walk downstairs I can see, but I can’t see being jealous of her being able to deliver straight from the tap.
Anyway, my doc drew blood for some tests, telling me that I needed to schedule a mammogram. She’d put a rush on it and get it scheduled for Monday, sensitive to the fact that we’d want to know the results as soon as possible. She re-emphasized that “Now is not the time to panic.” Actually, I could think of no better time to panic, especially after having been told to schedule a mammogram. I couldn't recall the last time anyone prayed to have a pus-filled sac in their chest [as an aside, I debated on the word 'pus-filled'. I was going to go with pusey or pusy, but I figured in a quick read, that was too close to something else and, boy, would that take this story in a new direction].
I left her office in a daze, realizing that I had a whole weekend to dwell on all of the possibilities.
To be continued ...
***
I don’t have time to always check the comments all the places where this rant is posted. If you want to make sure that I see it or just want to stop by and say hi, do so on my message board. I apologize in advance for some of my regulars.
The plastic plate of the x-ray machine lowered with a whir as I stood against the cold metal beast, naked from the waist up. All I could do was stare at my breast while it was positioned to be compressed between the plates wondering “how the heck did I get here?”
Early in her pregnancy, my wife’s doctor diagnosed her with a condition called placenta previa. While the doctor explained to both of us the nature of the condition, all I heard was “You can’t have sex with your wife.” Seven long months later, my wife was still recovering from her C-section. As a first time mother settling into a routine of nursing, any broach of her bosom area was met with the rebuke of “Those aren’t for you” and my hands getting slapped. At that point, I didn’t trust myself bumping into furniture. My Saturday nights were reduced to TV watching and cold showers.
Before the Divinyls’ “I Touch Myself” gets cued, let me get on with my story. One day in the shower, I spied my wife’s breast self-examination chart. Okay, it had been there the length of our marriage, but every time I stepped into the shower, all my mind registered were pictures of breasts and every time it took a minute for me to realize why they were there. Today was different. I looked around (because that’s what you did when you are about to do something potentially embarrassing) and performed the self-exam.
I felt a lump.
Now would also be the time to mention that I suffer from hypochondria. Unfortunately, it was matched by my great dislike for doctors, so I sat around a lot obsessing about what I might have, while not actually going anywhere to do anything about it.
I noticed a pain in my bosom (I’m trying to say bosom as often as possible, not necessarily to avoid offending anyone, but to try and hide my soon-to-be-copious use of – read: obsession with – the word “breast”). The pain was so great, I decided to ... call my sister. This wasn't as bad as it sounds: my sister was in nursing school. (Well she was taking English and speech and other pre-requisite stuff.) She told me that it might be an ingrown hair or an infected spider bite. So I was like “cool”.
The next day, the pain in my bosom woke me up. I decided to squeeze my breast. White liquid started came out from around my nipple. And it hurt. A lot. I spent the rest of the day laying around in pain. My wife was in full, but loving, harangue mode about how I ought to go to the doctor.
Two days after I first discovered the lump, I finally went to my doctor. It was a Friday. She poked, prodded and squeezed my bosom. (Yes, my doctor is a woman. I know that there are various schools of thought on the subject, and while I am by no means a homophobe, if someone is going to touch me anywhere near my naughty parts, it is going to be a woman. Okay, maybe that came off more homophobic than I wanted.)
"How long ago did you notice the lump?" she asked.
“While I don't make it a practice to play with my breasts often, the best I could tell you was when I noticed the pain.”
She sat across from me with her best grave "I have something serious to discuss with you" face. “There are three possibilities:
“1) It could just be an infected cyst.
“2) It could be breast cancer.
“3) It could be a benign brain tumor.”
Things became rather hazy at that point, though I remember how she emphasized the word “benign” as if that would help when accompanied by the words “brain tumor.”
My mind locked up with competing thoughts, trying to grasp the enormity of what I had just heard. Cancer didn't run in my family. However, I worked in an environmental toxicology lab and had sort of resigned myself to the possibility that any of the numerous chemicals I am exposed to might give me cancer. I mean, newspapers can report all they wanted about how coffee might cause cancer, but I worked with some chemicals labeled “mutagen.”
I managed to ask about the whole brain tumor thing. My doctor said that there was a type of tumor that caused the brain to screw up one’s hormonal levels which would explain - how did she put it? - “I’m not positive that you are simply discharging pus.” Tip-toeing around it, trying her best to cushion the news - emphasizing that now is not the time to panic - only panicked me more. She finally said the magic words: “You may be lactating.”
“Lactating?” I asked.
“Lactating.”
Sometimes a circumstance can hit you that was so absurd, all you can do is laugh. I’m all for extreme support in marriage; for example, when my wife had her gestational diabetes, I gave up desserts. But I didn't think I had ever identified so much ... I didn't think I had ever been so jealous ... I didn't think that I was so sympathetic as to start lactating on her behalf. I mean, I got up in the middle of the night to take care of the boy (okay, I was usually already up, but the thought was the same). But that was to change a diaper. If he were hungry, I was good with getting him a bottle. Being too lazy to walk downstairs I can see, but I can’t see being jealous of her being able to deliver straight from the tap.
Anyway, my doc drew blood for some tests, telling me that I needed to schedule a mammogram. She’d put a rush on it and get it scheduled for Monday, sensitive to the fact that we’d want to know the results as soon as possible. She re-emphasized that “Now is not the time to panic.” Actually, I could think of no better time to panic, especially after having been told to schedule a mammogram. I couldn't recall the last time anyone prayed to have a pus-filled sac in their chest [as an aside, I debated on the word 'pus-filled'. I was going to go with pusey or pusy, but I figured in a quick read, that was too close to something else and, boy, would that take this story in a new direction].
I left her office in a daze, realizing that I had a whole weekend to dwell on all of the possibilities.
To be continued ...
***
I don’t have time to always check the comments all the places where this rant is posted. If you want to make sure that I see it or just want to stop by and say hi, do so on my message board. I apologize in advance for some of my regulars.
Labels: life, medical issues
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