Striking a blow for fashion and patient dignity

Today I had another follow-up appointment following the whole breast cyst debacle. No more cyst, but there's a dark spot on the scan which is probably just scar tissue. No big deal, but it means I'm not discharged from the service yet.

Anyway, they're usually pretty quick about seeing you, but they have this little routine.

1. Wait. In an area that isn't exactly a hallway, but people are walking through there.
   
2. Nurse calls your name.
3. You answer and are lead to a cubicle where you're asked to change into one of those hideous gowns.
4. You go back to your seat - and wait some more.
5. But now you look stupid and exposed in a hospital gown.

Well, today I said no. I said I'm not going to put on a hospital gown. The nurse was shocked. Shocked I tell you. Her eyes were wide with disbelief. She made me repeat myself. I said I really don't want to put on one of those gowns.

"Well, no one likes them, but we're very busy today."
"I'm a really fast undresser," I said.
She looked doubtful.
"Really fast," I emphasized.

Anyway, I didn't put on the gown and I did undress fast. I'm certain that I took no more time than wearing one of those hideous gowns, since I generally have to fumble with the ties.

And when it was all over, I got dressed again fast, too.

Reverse augmentation

I had a breast cyst. Apparently they're not uncommon for women. It developed ages ago and it got a bit bigger. I didn't know it was a breast cyst, I just thought it was a lump. I knew it had formed during a fairly classic case of blocked duct, so I was pretty sure it was benign. But it just wouldn't go away. And you know what with all that breast cancer publicity, it does sort of cross your mind.

Here's a clinical description:

Cysts are fluid filled sacs within the breast. These sacs form when normal milk producing glands enlarge. The cause of this enlargement is not definitely known but is very likely related to an imbalance between the normal production and absorption of fluid. Breast cysts may be solitary but are most commonly multiple and can vary in size from microscopic to larger than a ping pong ball.

And let's just say, I was hitting the ping pong edge of the scale.

Today I went to the specialist breast clinic at my local hospital. (Yes, they call it a breast clinic, which I think is kinda funny). I was seen by a male nurse practitioner. Pretty much not all the kind of person I wanted to see. I would have preferred a female doctor, but there you are. The guy had a nice manner about him though and he seemed kinda gay. Don't know if he actually was gay or just affected the slightly gay thing, regardless it was somewhat reassuring.

There's the usual waiting and undressing and breast touching and so forth and then he told me he was going to stick a needle in my breast. I think I made a bit of a face, because he went all touchy-feely and stuff and asked me if it was a problem and did I need the other nurse to hold my hand? I assured him that I wasn't needle-phobic (I'm not) and that I'd be ok. I think they expected me to flip and the other nurse did hold my hand. I'm not the kind of person who finds that sort of thing comforting, but I was too worried about offending her and maybe it's part of their tactic to get in there and hold down a flailing arm if they need to.

Sticking a needle in the old breast tissue doesn't sound good, but it didn't actually hurt. In fact, it was far less painful than a blood draw, way less painful than getting your ears pierced or getting a tattoo. I'd wholeheartedly recommend it to even the most pain sensitive. They didn't even administer any pain relief - and a lydocaine shot almost certainly would have been more painful than the actual procedure.

The aspiration took a while because he pulled out five syringes (58ml) worth of instant-ice tea colored fluid from the cyst. Nasty. But when I saw them all lined up on the little stainless steel hospital trolley I said "I wish I'd brought my camera."

Because I was thinking of you, dear reader.

I'd been led to believe that the needle thing was to be diagnostic, but it turned out to be curative (hopefully). But the best part about the whole episode was that their "calming technique" was basically asking me questions about me. I was happy to comply.

Bad parenting

In England we get a developmental check at 8 months old. A health visitor (baby nurse) comes round to the house and makes sure baby is coming on normally and that you're not feeding the baby ground up glass or something.

Our local service was running behind, so Buddy only got his check this week. His length was measured for the first time since birth - he's 74.5 centimeters long - that's 2 ft 5. According to the growth charts that puts him just about in the 85th percentile for height. His weight is just a shade under 21 lbs - which is a shade above the median. But apparently he's a pinhead, his head circumference puts him in only the 20th percentile. I find this hard to believe considering his 12 to 18 month old hats are a little too small.

The health visitor asked us many questions about his development.

Holding a cup? - check

Babbling? - check

Pincer grip? - check

Crawling? - check

Following conversations? - err... sorta, like mom and dad he's a much better talker than listener

Sleeping through the night? - No.

Oh my goodness, you'da thought we were deliberately getting up in the night shining a flashlight in his eyes and crashing a cymbal over his head the way the health visitor reacted. The baby should be sleeping through the night. There's no reason for him to be waking in the night. It's only bad parenting that causes a baby to wake up. Whatever it is, he couldn't possibly be hungry.

And then when we admitted that we were co-sleeping, ohhh - the look of derision. "Well, you can continue with that if you want him sleeping with you at two and a half," she said. But it sounded more like "Well, you can continue with that if you want him to become a spree killer and a defrauder of churches."

Whatever.

I'm not going to let her beat me with the stick of bad parenting because my baby doesn't sleep through the night. For the record, usually he wakes, he feeds, he goes back to sleep. He's done that through teething and ear aches and recently his only really bad sleeping was when he had the stomach cruds causing diarrhea and vomiting. I think the whole sleeping through the night thing is a fallacy anyway. He used to sleep through, but he couldn't keep the weight on. He was a skinny little thing. He started waking to feed and now he's normal.

I'm not saying I wouldn't like a lot more sleep. I'm not saying that it wouldn't be nice to have one of those babies who goes down at 7 and sleeps til 7. But I'd also like to go out to the theater or dinner at an adult restaurant at the drop of a hat, too.

Her sleep solution was the old cry-it-out method. She said it would be sorted over a weekend as long as we stayed firm. Ehhhh, don't think so. Besides, that kid ain't gonna break over a couple of days.

She did have some good advice. We're going to start giving him more chewy solids more often and we're going to brush his teeth more regularly.

Sleep through the night, you must be joking.

Gender

We had our big anomaly ultrasound scan this week. That's the one where they count the toes and the organs and stuff.

At 36, there's always the concern that you've spawned a monster baby - so it was a relief to hear that everything is visibly normal. Well, except for one thing - the ultrasound tech apparently thought Cletus the Fetus had unusually attractive feet and ankles. "It didn't get that from me," I said. I have notoriously thick ankles - I prefer to think of them as sturdy. (Although through the quirks of genetics - it might have - VolBro has slim ankles with a straight and visible tendon up the back.)

The tech asked us at the beginning if we wanted to know the sex. I told her that VolMom would kill me if we didn't at least try to find out. Besides, I'm not big on surprises.

In some places in the UK, that is in some regional health authorities, they won't tell you the sex during the big scan. Abortion - kind of on demand, you must get two doctors to sign off - is legal up to 24 weeks in England. South Asian families were apparently aborting female fetuses at disproportionate rates, and many localities stopped telling. In my old health authority, for example, it was the policy not to say. I always felt this was a bit stupid, since if the families weren't willing to foot the cost of a girl child, surely they'd be willing to stump up the money for a priivate gender scan. And why should I be denied interesting, if not necessary, information on account of someone else's bad behaviour. Besides, I want a girl.

Well, that was the other anomaly that showed up. My wished for little girl had a penis. I can't say it was a surprise, since everyone - and I mean everyone including me - thought Cletus was a boy. And so he is.

I'm looking on the bright side. I would have been at a loss with a really girly-girl. I can't manage to fix my own hair most days. I'm quite happy in the mud and the dirt. And slacking on the sofa watching football of either kind and playing armchair pundit with my boy sounds like fun.

And there's another advantage. I've read a study which says that statistically men work harder and start making more money after the birth of their first child - but even more so if it's a boy.

I reminded the Vol-in-Law of this.
"There's another plus then. You just focus on the money."
"You focus on the money," I said.
"I don't need to. Statistically, I'll just make more. You can't fight statistics."

--oo--

If you want to see Ultrasound scan pics of baby Cletus - including those exceptional feet - you can see them on my "other blog"

I didn't want to just throw them up here - since I always find those blurry, black and white alien looking pictures a little diagnostic looking and vaguely unsettling.

We only paid for one pic, but we got 3. Who says you never get any extras on the NHS?

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