“Express” is apparently the medical term for “squeeze out…” as in “express some colostrum,” which is what a lactation specialist said to my sister back when that was an appropriate conversation to have.
well, that’s a way better word than excrete…and…it’s so abstract it’s whimsical.
I don’t remember if I tried expressing anything in the hospital, but at some point I discovered I could express genuine breast milk.
Great Scott! Virgin breast milk. There’s no way this is not an ingredient in a very special potion. I could probably get a basilisk if I sprinkled it on a toad.
I wish I could remember how I discovered my new superpower. I’m willing to bet I stumbled across encrusted milk on my shirt and after some alarm, tried a squeeze to confirm my suspicions.
I don’t remember if I reported my discovery to any of the doctors or visitors. “Hey, now I’m spending every day puking, pooping, peeing, bleeding, crying, drooling and milking on myself.” I definitely didn’t think to throw a mandrake or something in the wash and see if I could make an invisibility cloak or something. Surely combining normally mutually exclusive fluids must be worth creating antimatter or something.
I was washing my own clothes every day in an industrial sink. Between the steel drum beat the water made in the giant metal box and all of my magical expression, I probably activated some musical charm that unleashed gravitational waves. Or I animated zombies. The way everyone in the hospital was drugged, it would be very hard to notice zombification.
later research into the effects of my medication revealed it was the seroquel that messed with a hormone called prolactin. As the name suggests, it causes lactation. It upgraded my cup size a bit and made me fall dead asleep exactly forty-five minutes after taking the pill,then wake up fourteen hours later in a big puddle of urine.
The list of side-effects also mentioned “reduced sexual performance/ability.” which for me meant being able to go for weeks without even thinking about it.
Normal-sized boobs and no libido. Great. I’ve become what men seem to believe all women are like. Maybe this is the cure for being me. Maybe I just wasn’t feminine enough. I peed myself enough already without the drugs, though. It was probably the other drugs that caused that.
research also brought up the fact that the medicine gets into the breast milk. Even now, neary three years after going off the meds, I can still express tiny amounts of milk. For all I know, there are still tiny amounts of the drugs in the milk, so, I couln’t sell it or anything, unless someone wanted those side effects, assuming they would even have the same side-effects I did.
Potentially, there’s more sleep, chemically induced celibacy, maybe increased muscle mass, maybe breast augmentation, maybe lactation. I could be the head vampire creating a bunch of lactating virgins in an outbreak of magical milk. Or maybe a zombie outbreak. Pretty much any contagious supernatural creature, except one that produces instead of consuming. Also, one that sleeps most of the time and isn’t scary or threatening or sensual at all.
Then just recite a poem while starting the washing machine on your milky shirts, add some…bacon from a baby-eating pig and do it all during a full moon. Maybe if you sit on the washer it can become a time machine. I can’t think of any more magic ideas.
And feel free to talk all about it to a psych professional, especially without explaining that it’s a joke. Real sitcom humor.
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article sponsered by Northern Michigan certified lactation consulting and Mother Hubbards Country Cupboard
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