Hitting on a Male Nurse While on Drugs
White patient gown. Blue paper hairnet. Tall socks with the grippy things on the bottom.
At best, I probably look like a 3.
But I rubbed my breast anyway and made eyes at my 10 of a nurse.
At least, I think he was?
I’d have to ask my husband to confirm.
Because he was also there.
(Probably) not caring, as I hit on this medical professional.
Did I mention I’m on drugs?
So many drugs.
Turns out breast cancer surgery isn’t the most relaxing activity, so I was instructed to take anti-anxiety meds before I left the house.
And in the waiting room.
And then they were conveniently delivered straight into my veins in my pre-surgery pen.
Even in my Snoop Dogg-like state, I could do the math: scared = drugs.
So, instead of saying, “I’m fine,” like a good little cancer patient when the medical minions asked me how I was doing, I told them the God’s dang truth:
“Really bad actually!”
“Like, not great at all.”
“Pretty fucking scared to be honest.”
Then I’d feel that sweet liquidy coolness swirl into my system.
While each fix did its job, I knew that there would be an end to this gravy train because I got the (paranoid) feeling those nurse narcs were onto me.
But the desire to drive out the deep, existential fear that only cancer can bring was still knocking at the door of my drug haze.
I needed something more potent than narcotics to send that bitch packing:
Laughs.
Not easy to come by in the old cancer ward.
But this was my special fucking day. So, I went for it anyway.
And because the arc of the universe bends toward justice, an opening landed right in my lap: a hot male nurse asked me to rub my own boob.
I mean???
To be fair to this poor man, the solofondling was a medical necessity.
Beyond cutting out my tumor, my surgeon also wanted to slice out my sentinel nodes. These are the places where cancer cells might decide to escape and live out their little cancer destinies in other parts of my body— dicks.
The first step to prep me for this part of my pending procedure? My nurse injected me with a dye. And then, to be clear:
He asked me to rub my boob in front of him.
Medically speaking, it was to get the dye moving through my lymphatic system.
But I took it in another direction. Because, laughs.
“I don’t rub myself for just anyone,” I slurred in the way no guy loves.
I probably also winked.
Too slowly.
Because drugs.
This nurse. This professional. This gift of a man. He laughed.
Like a real, honest-to-goodness laugh.
I’m figuring I probably surprised it right out of him because who has the nerve to hit on someone prepping them for cancer surgery and looking utterly insane?
I fucking do.
The moment his laugh hit my system, it worked its magic better than any hospital drug could.
Because the feeling went away.
That cancery feeling when people look at you with pity and a sad smile.
Or worse.
Like a scary story no one wants to talk about, and everyone wants to forget.
But I knew, without really knowing, that before I could let someone cut me open like a slab of meat, I needed to reclaim my personhood.
Because before I’m a cancer patient.
Before I’m #3 on the surgical schedule.
I’m Lindsey.
I read sexy fairy/dragon books that make me horny as hell.
I dance to hip hop with a coven of cool women every Saturday.
I throw myself into adventures (usually recklessly!) so I can feel alive.
I laugh my ass off with my friends.
I laugh hardest with my husband.
And I make dirty jokes to people who have my actual life in their hands.
Because I am a God damn person.
And that matters.
At least it did to me.
My nurse, on the other hand, was over my “reclaiming” after his f irst spontaneous laugh. Because, unfortunately for my comedic street cred, I didn’t know when the bit was over.
Again, drugs.
So I kept up my schtick as I was being rolled down the hospital hallway.
When I was transferred into the surgical bay.
When he asked me to lie down on the operating table.
Until, finally, he placed the anesthesia mask over my endlessly yapping mouth so he and the rest of my surgical team could get to work saving my life.
And probably to shut me the fuck up.
While I’ll be forever grateful to that nurse for being part of the team that got rid of my tumor with clean lines, successfully removed my sentinel nodes without any nefarious cancer cells living in them, and gave me all the drugs a gal could ever want…
The laugh meant more. 🌿
Lindsey M. Campbell
DCIS. Stage I, ER+, PR+. Current Line of Treatment: Tamoxifen.
Lindsey is a fellow human. A lover of Jeff. A fighter for human rights. A writer of stories and poems. A dancer on the weekends. A traveler to anywhere that she can visit. A Bostonian whose love language is giving you shit. And a petter of every dog she sees.
“Hitting on a Male Nurse While on Drugs” is published in Wildfire Journal’s 2026 “Worth” issue. Order a digital copy of the full issue in our shop. Available in the subscribers’ library as well.