Navel gazing and tit clutching

There you see, I did it.  I called myself a blogger and scared myself off.

Spoiler: this blog post contains gore and close to nothing funny, I just needed to publish something to get myself back out of the rut I’d gotten myself into.

Image from the wonderful http://gapingvoid.com
Image from the wonderful http://gapingvoid.com

It’s now a month without putting fingers to keyboard in any creative fashion.

So this is the curse-breaker post.

Feel free to immediately click back onto Facebook, maybe come back tomorrow, I should hopefully have something more interesting to say.

‘I Stand Quietly’ was a bit of a phenomemononemon.

Let alone my feeble brain now thinks that misspelling longish words has some kind of cutesy appeal, and what the feck is that about, I stopped feeling Dirty, Naked and Happy.

Too many nice people and serious sincere comments to read.  I don’t do compliments graciously.  I feel squirmy.  Whilst I also had the good fortune to meet some absolute gems of wicked and irreverent humanity, some who really ‘got’ me and helped offset the ones who are praying for me and making me feel gauche, overall = squirmy.

Too many needy people and some really galling emails, things you can’t unread.  Argh.  It’s not that this girl just wanna can haz fun.  It’s that it is a bit hard to blog fart jokes when there’s someone out there maybe hanging on for a supportive reply to their truly bleak situation.

Too many weirdos and evangelists and autism cures to research, again, even though I already knew they were mostly bull.  Nothing like that bad-parent-could-do-better feeling at 3am… I didn’t quite get to reading up on the Miracle Cure (give your kid a bleach enema) FAQs but teetered closer than I should have done.

Compared to a lot of autism parents, I really don’t know crap.  Yet all of a sudden some people were saying that ‘I Stand Quietly’ was one of the best descriptions of autism ever, so accessible etc etc and others were using it in training courses in their proper professional workplaces. Yikes.

The whole process left me with a new type of seriousness that weighed heavy.

I even started to feel bad about sniggering because Aspergers sounds like ass burgers when Americans say it.  I’ve definitely got over that though.  It’s laugh out loud funny.

Ass burgers.  Don’t they realise?

This chap might be a genius, go to Etsy, check him out: https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/letspainttv
This chap might be a genius, go to Etsy, check him out: https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/letspainttv

My hunch is that this is in part why Aspergers has been phased out and now we are only diagnosing high functioning autism… removes the urge to say “you want pickles with that?”.  Again, I digress.

Weighted down with seriousness, at the same time perhaps all the attention, and the TV and radio appearance requests (yeah! I know!) went to my head a little: blog-wise, I started to get a bit above my station.

I started to nurture big, big ambitions, way beyond my actual writing or intellectual capabilities. Would I ever write anything that carried the same weight as ‘I Stand Quietly’? Would I ever make the front page of Huffington Post ever again?  The dull, abandoned drafts stacked up and frustration set in.

The result of all this heavy shit?  An abscess in my boob the size of an large hen’s egg.

Yeah lady luck, spirit of karma and any other God-types omnipowers lurking out there – thanks a bunch for that – I may not be a good person but I do a good thing and you give me that?

I hate to let down womankind but boob abscess beats childbirth. Think of it like Trauma Trump Cards (ooh, I may yet make those, hypochondriacs everywhere will love me): pain = a little less than labour, but duration – boom – I trump my own vaginal birth and anaesthetic-free stitching up of undercarriage experience with 10 days of constant banging boob pain.

Talk about everything coming to a head. Or not. Mine wouldn’t.

I ended up having a lot of noxious cappuccino-coloured blood-swirled grossness syringed out of the boob by a handsome (of course) young (uhuh) witty (that’s the classic) male (bingo, full house) surgeon…

…whilst I poured sweat and squawked and chattered behind an inadequate curtain on a ward full of chaps who also needed lancing or draining.  I felt proper dirty.  They were gracious enough to look at the floor when I made my dizzy but very happy exit.

Although I have spent a considerable amount of the last two weeks trying to stay motionless, sweating in mild nauseated panic, to minimise the terrible unbelievable pain, there was an abundance of comedy fodder and I appear to have regained my mojo, hurrah!

You know how people say to smile even if you don’t feel like it as it will still make you feel better?  I believe the same is true of manic hysterics.

Me at the hospital
Me at the hospital

Agony to one side, the experience was hysterical from the off:

  • being told not to worry by the receptionist as my GP has no sense of smell (I didn’t think I looked THAT dirty)
  • being forced to repeatedly leave the house bra-less for the first time in 30 years – completely liberating to the point of having the potential to become a cheap thrill (I now must accept that wandering around with my boobs a few inches lower isn’t detrimental to my appearance, I do look like a sack of shit regardless)
  • having to convince the junior Accident & Emergency doctor that my Dad, who came along to pass the time, was not my carer and I was in possession of my full mental faculties and could speak for myself (it appears I look like a simpleton sack of shit)
  • realising it is really unfair on a young doctor man child to make jokes about saggy tits hitting the floor if I let go of them as professionally he couldn’t really laugh along, and realistically he was already busy managing his horror at my polycystic ovarian syndrome induced hirsuteness (I am, in fact, an orangutan)

For those who are interested: having a mammogram on a boob with an abscess in it has to be as near an instant puke and faint experience as anything on this godforsaken earth. I had to have a couple of “shots” repeated as they were blurred because I had SUCH BAD hysterics. The mammogramologist woman whatever she is called was very kind about my swear word laden enquiry as to how it is possible for any kind of blur-making wobble to occur under THAT much clamping pressure…

The greatest irony in it all?  Daughter had just left the house.

Yes, I did say that.  Daughter has been out!  Bad days are now interspersed with good days again!!!!!!!!!!  …and it DOES warrant that many exclamation marks.

Proper clothing on, flip flops on, seatbelt on, out.  Amazing.  We’ve been shopping and to the play park, with Daddy she has been swimming and scootering and puddle jumping.  Simply joyous and marvellous.

So why the happy, gurning, fist-pumping hell did I not blog about that?

I didn’t want to tempt fate.  I need not have worried.  Fate lurks behind doors with the dust bunnies waiting to be tempted in extraordinary ways in our house.  Still, I’d rather have an exploding boob and a happy bunny for a daughter any day.

This morning, before I got in the shower, I lifted up my still-hot-and-hurty but nearly better boob to check on the abscess and accidentally caused more bloody coffee-coloured goop to squirt forth with such force it hit the mirror.

Not my finest moment but on balance, I concluded that I was OK.  I was definitely back: Dirty, Naked and Happy.

21 thoughts on “Navel gazing and tit clutching

  1. welcome back, you have been missed. Although you have left me subconsciously holding my own chest in sympathy. Glad your daughter is venturing out, fab. xx

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  2. I am left totally in awe at your writing prowess and very grateful that I hadn’t jinxed you by joining your blog! Respect for all your pain and BRILLIANT news about daughter going out, oh, and poorly boob getting better of course!

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  3. Yay! Your daughter is on an upswing 🙂 Thanks for sharing, your post made me laugh out loud…especially the saggy tits/doctor/orangutan bit 🙂

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  4. Good to see you back – until the penultimate paragraph, which has just made me regurgitate coffee and question whether I will ever drink it again…

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  5. Good Lord, but you are so hysterically funny! Sorry about the boob. That sucks green goose eggs… but congrats on your kid. Yay! 🙂

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  6. Glad to see you back blogging again, even if the penultimate paragraph brought forth a blarghhhh moment from me!

    My deepest and sincere sympathies for the agony that mammogram must have been! They’re not the most comfortable experience in the world under routine checking circumstances and must be sheer unadulterated agony with a hot, burning abscess to take account of!

    Having suffered the indignity of abscess-lancing torture twice in the past, your description made me both wince and laugh! At least you got a young, handsome, witty male surgeon to do the honours.

    The first time I went through that indignity (large abscess at the base of my ‘tail’ / top of arse) it was one of those old-fashioned female dragons of a nurse who castigated me for being somewhat vocal as she did the honours – “Bear up dear, it’s not that bad and you don’t want the whole world to hear you” – forgive me, but it was that bad, I had my bare arse in the air and I didn’t really care too much who heard me cursing at that moment in time! (I did about 10 mins later when I had to exit through a crowded GP surgery…)

    The second time was an abscess caused by an ingrowing hair in the vaginal area – another female harridan type decided I needed to be shaved and proceeded to do so with what felt like a blunt and rusty razor and no water or anything to smooth the way so I was no longer sure which hurt most, the razor burn or the abscess!

    It seems bad enough to me when you get something so damned painful in one of your more intimate places that you have to bare all to a complete stranger, but when they then add to the agony by loading embarrassment on in bucket-loads, it’s really not fair!

    All that being said, I can laugh about it now as it’s some years ago but it doesn’t exactly make me look forward to the routine mammogram I have booked in for 6th June… just a little thing to squeeze into my lunch-break that day…

    The bestest news though is that your daughter is getting out and about again 🙂 Long may the upswing last for all your sakes. I have no experience so cannot understand just how much that may mean, but I can empathise and understand the sheer joy that a trip to the park must bring 🙂 Enjoy, indulge and celebrate every one of these moments 🙂

    On the blogging front: when I lack inspiration or feel a total lack of motivation (for anything, especially that housework thing), I bake.

    I bake cakes, cookies, pies… all sorts.

    I don’t eat them as I hate cake and such stuff but I really enjoy beating the hell out of butter and sugar etc! I then take them into work or give them to neighbours – no-one’s ever said they can’t eat my creations and I do experiment… Latest was 2 cakes never made before baked yesterday for my once-a-month visit to the office – they look sort of OK, but will see what the verdict is tomorrow!

    If you were nearer to me, I’d bake something and bring it round, so we’ll have to settle on your rather gorgeous image of an Ass Burger!!!

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    1. Baking and not eating – shame on you, you feeder!! – I have to avoid people like you 🙂

      Upswing continues, thank you for all your support. And thanks for sharing the abscess stories, maybe we should approach a publisher about a compilation! Xx

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  7. I literally checked my boob for lumps while reading your post – that’s how to scare the shit out of someone and make them check! Glad daughter’s been out, must be such a relief 🙂

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  8. At risk of sounding airy, fairy hippyish, which I’m definately not!, you can work wonders on drawing out a cyst like this with a half and half mixture of Baking Soda (NOT Baking powder), and coconut oil, mix a flat tablespoon of each, put on 3 times a day, loosely covered. This dealt with a septicaemic wound on my son’s leg, and cysts on two dogs…it opens up the cyst/whatever, and then draws out the gunk and heals it. Meanwhile HUGE empathy for the mammograms…I HATE them….and the operators are always highly made up, squeaky clean proper ladies, not grubby auld artists with grubby auld bras! Hope all’s well with that now x

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    1. Ooh, I like the sound of that! I think I’m finished oozing this time so I’m torn between the urge to try it and not wanting to wish further lumpiness on the humans or dogs in this house! Coconut oil is amazing isn’t it!

      I’m still searching for some kind of adhesive that doesn’t gradually take off the outer layer of my skin… Even micropore was becoming agony!

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      1. You poor lass! Micropore is the nearest to good that I’ve found….One other use (of many) for bicarb of soda is to alkalinize the body, a teaspoon in warm water before meals works wonders for acid reflux and heartburn…I’ve never experienced either, but it’s really helped friends! Here’s hoping you’re fighting fit in no time! Best Wishes, Charlie.

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  9. Very glad you’re back blogging. Only discovered your blog after the Stand Quietly storm, but so pleased I did as I love the way you write. So would have been sad not to see any more! No pressure, but keep up the good work 🙂

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