>On Dec. 29, 1998, two days after my 23rd birthday, I had breast reduction surgery in Chicago to finally stop the excruciating pain in my neck, shoulders, and upper back. My boobs were sewn up after the operation with dissolvable stitches, or should I say, stitches that dissolve in normal people. In August 2004, two days before I was to leave on a road trip to Vermont with Dr. P, I noticed a small lump along the line where my stitches had been holding my tit halves together. Further investigation indicated that a 5 ½ year old stitch from my surgery was surfacing.

I called Dr. P. “Uh, I think a stitch is somehow still left in me and is now popping out,” I eloquently told her. She said while that it was weird, it is not too unusual for that to happen. In fact, people who are in car or other major accidents will often absorb pieces of glass, only to have the shards start poking out years later. She told me to cover it up with a bandage and monitor it.

The next morning at work, I felt a bit uncomfortable. I went into the bathroom and checked out my boob. The bandage was oozing with pus. Most displeasing, if I do say so myself. I called Dr. P again. “Yeah, there’s like pus oozing out of it now,” I said as quietly as possible so as not to notify my cubicle mates that I had pus seeping out of my tit. (Yet I wound up chatting with them about it later anyway.) Dr. P thought I might need antibiotics. Seeing as how my gross weasel surgeon was back in Chi-town, and I could not get a doctor’s appointment elsewhere before I left for Vermont the next day, I went to the ER at New York Downtown, a small community hospital near my office, on my lunch hour. Ha! Like you can get in and out of the ER in an hour. Something like 3 hours later, a semi-useless ER resident saw me and gave me some antibiotics.

The next day, I was on my way with Dr. P in a dark orange rental car that we picked up at the New Haven MetroNorth Station, saving us oodles of money and traffic issues. We had a lovely time driving up to Vermont, eating at a random BBQ pit that served it’s ‘cue out of a converted school bus, and generally relaxing. The next night, however, while we were at a coffeehouse (possibly Starbucks), I got that bad feeling again. I went into the bathroom to check, and found that the pus was everywhere. I put my boob away, got Dr. P, and brought her into the bathroom. She agreed that things did not look so good, and we went back to her parents’ house, where I lay on the floor while she squeezed pus out of my tit. (The great thing about being friends with a resident is that she travels with latex gloves.) I am sure that it would have been quite an erotic sight to someone who did not notice the latex gloves or pus. Anyway, the stitch came out along with geysers of pus, we cheered and went on with our vacation. (And what a great vacation story this makes!)

Last night, 1 1/2 years after the Vermont pus-y (or is it pussy?) boob incident, I felt something strange in my tit while I was in the shower. A closer look seemed to indicate that it was another stitch. I hope that Husband can be as brave as Dr. P when it comes time for the pus volcano.