Copyright 1994(c)

                         HOMESTYLE BOOBS
                         By Del Freeman

     My medical experiences are always reminiscent of the old joke
about the guy who goes hunting with his buddy and gets trapped in
a tree with a vicious cougar, and who shouts down to his buddy to
shoot the critter. The buddy, of course, can't get a clear shot,
and says so.
     "Shoot up amongst us," responds the fellow with a handful of
cougar. "One of us has got to have some relief."
     I'll give you an example... .
     Once, long ago, I broke my femur bone. A freak accident
wherein I exited my car only to look back and see it rolling
forward, my two-year old inside. Automatically, I ran at it like
Superman and placed my hands on the hood to stop the momentum.
Naturally, the laws of physics being what they are, it promptly
threw me to the ground and ran over me. In slow motion, the front
wheels first ran over my legs and slowed the momentum a bit. By the
time the rear wheels rolled over my legs, the momentum was halted.
I called up comforting words to the two-year-old peering at her mom
on the ground in curiosity, and laid there while neighbors called
for a rescue unit and got, instead, a police car.
     "Do you have a license?" asked the first officer on the scene.
     I scrounged around, found my purse and handed him my wallet
from my prone position. 
     "Could you take it out of the plastic?" he asked, handing it
back.
     I did. On the next call, neighbors got another police car with
an officer just as curious. On the third call -- third officer, I
asked them if they could just keep the license and pass it around
among themselves as the crowd increased. I also asked for a blanket
to combat shock.
     When finally the rescue unit arrived, an EMR cut straight up
the leg of my favorite dungarees, grabbed the ankle and said, "This
may hurt." He yanked to straighten the leg, bound it up in splints
and they hoisted me into an ambulance. The ambulance drove over the
bumpiest roads to the hospital where they transferred me to another
gurney and wheeled me into the hospital. They took me up for x-
rays... lots of them, which involved another transfer onto the x-
ray table and then back onto the gurney. Back in the emergency room
they advised they couldn't give me anything for pain because I must
remain conscious so as not to move and drive the broken bone
through my skin. They attached seven pounds of weight to the toe
and said they would operate in the morning.
     "If you can't give me an aspirin, just give me a gun so I can
blow my brains out," I told the ER room staff.  
     Thus, you have my most painful memory related to physical
discomfort. I did not, at any time, cry, although I admit I
whimpered a bit. This was my most painful medical experience until
Friday, February 25, 1994 -- a date that will live in infamy. Well,
maybe not... but I'll by God never forget it. 
     On that innocuous date I went to the hospital for what had
been described as a needle-localization of two small lumps in my
right breast, preparatory to their removal and biopsy. In
preliminary discussion, this sounded about as painful as a haircut.
     "We'll give you a local for the insertion of the needle," said
my surgeon, Dr. Smiley.
     "You'll have to do better than that," said I, having already
experienced the joys of mammography the preceding month. "Okay,
we'll pre-medicate you," he said. I imagined twilight sleep.
Obviously, he imagined Tylenol. What we had there was a lack of
communication. Nonetheless, Friday dawned.
     I eyed the technician from my height. She was tiny. I could
take her if necessary.
     "I'm Gean Yenzer," she said. "I'm going to do a needle
localization of your breast." 
     "In a pig's eye," said I. "You got a gun?"
     She blinked. Obviously this was not your average patient. Her
expression said that eight a.m. in the morning she could easily
have done without this.
     "Nobody's doing nothing to me unless I get drugs," said I.
"Get the drug person."
     She tried reason. She tried cajoling. Her demeanor clearly
said she hoped this cup might be allowed to pass from her lips. She
finally suggested I sit while she called my doctor. I figured she
wanted to ask him why he hadn't sent me to Baptist instead of to
her, at South Miami Hospital.
     I sat. I groused. Along came a nurse, who also tried a bit of
reason. 
     "I'm Vicki," she said.
     "I'm not going under the needle without drugs," I answered.
     Somebody asked me, by way of conversation, I think, what kind
of drugs I preferred. 
     "Lots," said I. "The kind they give horses would be nice."
     "The doctor will administer a local before he puts the needle
in," said Gean.
     "Not before he premedicates me, he won't," said I, stubbornly.
     All the learned medical people spent divers amounts of time
explaining to me why they could not put me to sleep for this
procedure. Finally the doctor joined them in this endeavor. 
     "I'm Dr. Rabassa," said he.
     "Not without drugs, you're not," said I. "Without drugs you're
just another jmoak with a kinky idea of fun."
     Much time passed while everyone debated how they could get rid
of me. Even great minds sometimes fail, and ultimately they had to
deal with me. We all discovered we were relatively nice people.
Liking them did nothing to persuade me to give up my preoccupation
with major drugs.
     In order to get my right ta-ta into the mammogram machine,
they gave me valium. I wanted morphine. This was not a good
compromise. It left me conscious and verbal. I have no doubt they
all sincerely wanted to give me morphine. At least, I'm sure they
wanted me non-verbal. Nonetheless, the valium did persuade me to
let them manipulate my ta-ta into the monster thumbscrew. They took
a round of pictures. Only I would end up being photogenic in my old
age in the one area where I have no appreciation for it, I thought.
     Along came Dr. Rabassa, who studied these pictures and ordered
more. I decided if I lived through this, I'd see a shaman for a
nice, appropriate curse. After several hours and several shots of
valium, they had my ta-ta locked in the device - one side solid and
one side a grid with a rectangular opening. 
     "This will sting a bit," said the doctor, and shot liquid fire
into my ta-ta.
     "Eee-yow, mother-huncher, mother-huncher," I screamed. A
shaman with a not-so-nice curse, I decided.
     "Now, I'm putting in the needle," said the doctor. "This will
smart," he warned, and inserted a needle coated with acid.
     I all but exhausted my somewhat extensive vocabulary of curses
with that one. I cried. A lot. A shaman with an impotency curse,
I decided. Maybe one with a disease curse.
     They took another picture, with my ta-ta grasped in the vise,
the needle sticking out like a well-placed arrow. They went away
to develop that one and left me captive. It's okay, I told myself.
Sooner or later, they have to let me go. They can't run and they
can't hide. I'll hunt 'em down like Bronson... I'll pick them off
when they least expect it... I'll collect their scalps and string
them together, decorating my mantle at Christmas. My grandchild
will ask innocently, 'What is that, Grandma?' and I shall reply,
'Justice!'
     Then... they came back. They finally had a surfeit of pictures
and were ready to shove the wire inside the needle so that it
rested against the lump in my right breast, they said.
     "You'll feel some discomfort," said the doctor. 
     "Think about blue water," said Gean.
     I shrieked, cursed, and wept some more. I thought about how
badly I wanted to tell the doc about his mama and the mule... in
Tijuana. I would have, if only I could have spoken in any but four
letter words. Naturally, they took another picture and again left
me in the contraption. I decided on an impotency AND a disease
curse. 
     They came back. They kept doing that. 
     "Okay, it's in position," said Dr. Rabassa.
     "Turn me loose," I pleaded. They taped off the wire and did
so. Now, they said, they had to do the other lump. So many hours
had now passed that they decided to do this one by sonogram. The
good part about this is that the monster vise is not involved. The
bad part is that the needle and wire are.
     "Not without major drugs, you're not," said I. "Somebody find
Miss Vicki." Miss Vicki had become my instant heroine.
     More shrieking and crying and cursing later, they finally had
the second wire in and taped it off. I had firmly decided on the
impotency, disease, and 10-item curse. The 10-item curse is the one
where every grocery store Dr. Rabassa enters for the rest of his
natural life will have an express line with customers preceding
him, each of whom have a minimum of 25 items and want to pay by
check. I also decided we should definitely not stop with 'all the
lawyers.' I'm big on justice!
     Gean, Miss Vicki and Dr. Rabassa all wished me luck and
quickly departed. Good riddance was merely implied. I was taken
upstairs where they asked if I had to use the potty. I didn't.
Exactly 45 seconds after I laid down and they raised the side of
the bed, I did. By then, of course, they had decided I couldn't
because I was medicated. They had a funny idea of what 'medicated'
is, I noticed. They offered me a bed pan. I opted to whiz on the
doctor during the procedure. I KNOW justice.
     Nurse Beth was next to approach me, as we all waited for Dr.
Ramirez, the anesthesiologist, and my new hero. He came. He said
he was going to put me to sleep, now. Miss Vicki was immediately
forgotten. "I love you," I said. He thought I was kidding.
     Several hours later I awoke, with a sore, bandaged ta-ta, to
the news that I no longer had lumps and that the lumps I had
formerly had were benign. I thought warm, rosy thoughts about all
the people whose lives I'd made hell along the way. I expected
they'd all go home and kick the cat. Those who didn't have a cat,
would no doubt get one for that exact purpose. I hoped they'd name
it after me.
     The day after dawned with discomfort, and I was unable to
pursue my usual Saturday occupation -- thrift store shopping. The
comforting thought that my unwelcome lumps had been benign carried
me through this disappointment. I chose to practice my Pollyanna
philosophy, and wondered if I could go in under an alias when my
next mammogram is due.
     When I broke my leg, they put in a pin, and put me on crutches
for almost a year. Once I had finally learned to walk, and even
dance again, they wanted to take the pin out. Despite the current
style being those ridiculous wedgie shoes and my continuing fear
that I would fall off and drive the pin through my brain, I opted
to keep it. I had found something to be grateful for in that
medical scenario.   
     "Thank you, God," I had murmured to the heavens. "That car
could as easily have run over my head, as my legs."
     There must, aside from the fact that the lumps were benign,
be something to be grateful for in this scenario as well, I
decided. I racked my brain.
     "Thank you, God," I murmured once again to the heavens. "That
car could as easily have run over my head, as my legs."
                              -30-

Disclaimer: I am immensely grateful to everyone involved in this
process for their compassion and understanding. I was a difficult
patient, and the patience of this medical staff was nothing short
of valiant in dealing with me. I am equally grateful that I had the
dreaded mammogram when I did, discovered the lumps, got a second
opinion and had them removed. I have decided I will not return to
the hospital like a disgruntled postal worker; and I have even
given up the idea of the shaman. I still, however, think the C.I.A.
is missing a great persuader with that needle and wire thing.
 


