Ladies who Lactate are Lovely Ladies Indeed!

I now understand the fun of lactation.  Oh, that special ability to feed life with the essence of self distilled and collected and finally bestowed by Demeter or St. Giles depending on your set of gods and goddesses.  I am not afraid to say, I am a man.  I have lactated.
It all began with a simple surgical procedure to do a lung biopsy.  I'd been hospitalized by different medical facilities on the rate of about one a year.  It was a matter of trying to diffuse this pattern of behavior.  I mean, New Year's Eve in a hospital with a tube in your pee pee so you don't have to bother the nice orderly to make the trip on your own.  If you're lucky, you sneaked in a 20 bag so you can at least mess with the minds of the cardiac monitors!  Oh, now THAT'S fun!

This year, I was determined to find out what went wrong with my lungs every year and to do that, it required a biopsy of the surgical type.  They explained it to me.  Four small incisions under my left arm.  So tiny as to be nearly impossible to feel.  Why, la-de-la might be out the same day!

The surgeon should be executed and the doctor should be shot.  The first didn't put in the tiny slits he described. No, instead there were tunnels and a fourth excavation cave.  I  think they had a hoover hooked up to me at some point.  And, a blender, a slicer, a dicer and perhaps even a Lean Mean Suckitout Machine! by George Foreman.

The next day, the miracle bestowed itself upon me.  Like I said, I do not know if it was Demeter or St. Giles, but whichever of the gender benders waved her wand and I brought forth milk.  And, not just a little milk.  I gave like a spigot.  A milked out like an old jersey cow forgotten in the fields while the Duleys were at the reunion dontcha know.  I called the nurse.  I lifted up the lactating titty and said "Help!"  She fixed her deep brown eyes and old scaggled face bearing the mark of the faithful in center forehead, took a deep breath, and said, "No, no, no, no.  No play with that!  Move your hand.  No touch."

I felt dirty.  As if I'd shown her a peep show rather than a valid nursing concern.  "Is this normal?"  She, "Is what normal, I am very busy, but patient comes first, no more pain medication, it will clear in five days.  Goodnight.  Lay back down.  No play with ... chest."  I was sure she was going to say "Thank You and Come Again ala Apu of the Simpsons."  But, she just exited the room her heart held up to the devoted God of the Dot at the idiocy of the white man in 517.

That was four days ago.  I'm still flowing but I've decided not to bottle it as the best cure for gout since 1901. But if you really hurry, you can get in on the milking action on your own.  Just bring a jar - a big jar.  Oh, and a lot of patience.  It happens in its own time.  Apparently I'm titty shy.

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