WHY I LIKE BOOBS: PART 3
Last week, I shared some of the big factors leading up to my decision to get plastic surgery. In this post, I’ll talk about the the time period before and after the big day.
DISCLAIMER: THIS SERIES OF POSTS IS COMPLETELY CONCEPTUALLY UNFILTERED.
Please be aware that the intent of this series in no way aims to create a spectacle of my experience or to advocate for or against any choice that YOU make. This is a place occupied by me trying to make sense of the way my mind and brain function together and why I am the way I am. This is me digging REALLY deep into myself and yanking those skeletons out of the closet. I’m letting you see them, too. Through providing my personal experiences, I hope to help inspire you to find in yourself a deeper desire to examine YOUR what and why.
So if you were to tell me that
1) I would be writing a blog where I talk about myself in general and 2) I would be blabbing about my boob job to the entire Internet, I would have absolutely refused to believe you. The thought of people finding out about this was something I was determined to never let happen. I knew full well that everything would change if people found out. My character would be judged, as would my priorities, my financial decisions and my values. I used to get really upset when people didn’t like me for one reason or another. I didn’t want this decision to change how people saw me.
I only told a few of my very closest friends, and the only family members that knew were my mom and brother. The friends I told were all genuinely surprised. Some told me it seemed out of character, and a few just couldn’t relate, making it hard to empathize. Once I explained my motives, they came around and eventually supported my decision. Those in my immediate social circles had no idea, and most people in my life won’t know until they read this blog.
The weeks leading up to surgery I wore two bras every day, and almost exclusively dressed in loose shirts and sweaters. I hoped that by taking attention off this area, people would forget what I looked like before. Because of the week of recovery time, I had to tell people I saw on the daily that I was going to be out of commission. When they asked what was up, I told them I was getting a minor surgery over the week of Thanksgiving break and that’s all they really needed to know.
The big day finally came: Monday, three days before Thanksgiving. My mom drove me to the clinic. I felt weirdly calm the entire morning and remember being slightly spacey, as if past me was in charge and I was just following through with someone else’s plan now. I didn’t get scared until they wheeled me into the operation room and I saw all the big tools and surgeons. In that moment, I almost backed out. I was so scared. Scared of them messing up, scared of not healing properly, and scared that I had made such a drastic decision at nineteen years old. Before I knew it, the surgeon put the anesthesia mask on my face and told me to count down from five.
And the next thing I know I’m being wheeled to the car. The next two days are kind of blurry, but I remember being thirsty all the time, taking lots of pain meds, and my mom bringing me ice cream and helping me switch out frozen peas I was icing my chest with. Everything hurt terribly and I could barely move. Lifting my arms was impossible because it flexed my chest muscles. I didn’t even want to think about if it was worth it or not, I just tried to focus on healing.
By Thanksgiving, the swelling had gone down enough for me to take the larger bandages off and look at myself in the mirror. My chest was still totally inflamed, which was normal and is supposed to go down over the three months post operation. Despite the achiness and the fact that I felt like an odd version of Frankenstein, I was elated.
You know that feeling when you sleep on your arms the wrong way and they lose circulation? You sit up and they go limp. It feels like they aren’t a functioning part of your body, just long sausage appendages that swing around for a few minutes until they start to tingle and your mobility returns. That’s what this felt like. I looked in the mirror and saw real fake boobs, but there was not sensation when I touched them and I totally wasn’t used to having weight on my chest. I was a little nervous that this was going to be the new normal, but decided to just trust the process as it had only been a few days.
We had Thanksgiving dinner at my grandma’s house where I was determined to act normal. My mom helped me strategize how to not expose myself. I wore a big sweater and told everyone I was sick so that they wouldn’t try to hug me. One of my cousins commented on the fact that I was acting loopy (maybe because I was on enough pain meds to knock out a small animal?). I quieted down and it didn’t become an object a conversation. My brother kept making subtle puns about me that both of us thought were hilarious, and left everyone else royally confused. No one found out that night.
The funniest experience I had in the recovery stages was about three weeks out from surgery. I was starting to get more mobility in my arms and could participate in normal social functions. I had started talking to a cute guy at church. One Friday night, he asked me if I wanted to go off-roading with him and one of our mutual friends. I immediately agreed, forgetting I had just had surgery on the (now) bounciest part of my body. You aren’t supposed to do any kind of strenuous movement for at least a month because it can lead to internal bleeding and excess scar tissue.
I decided to power through the consequences because I just really wanted to hang out with him (DUMB). Thinking back, how could I have been so stupid? I was recovering from a moderately gnarly surgery, and decided to accept the invitation to literally bounce around a canyon in a monster truck? What would happen if I got hurt? What would happen if the stitches ripped and blood went through my shirt? How embarrassed would I have been if I had to explain this to two MEN?
None of that entered my head, though, until way after. I was too stuck on chilling with a dude. Do you relate?
We got into our friend’s giant lifted Ram and headed out for the local canyon. As we hit the rocks, I instinctively bear hug my chest. It was dark, so the guy didn’t seem to notice the fact that I was grabbing my boobs OR my internal panic. For the next three hours I defended myself against every jolt and bump, protecting my new boobs from harm. It felt comical. Neither of these dudes had a single clue. It was an odd experience, I was feeling so many emotions at once. I was flirting, but was also on guard against being slammed into the side of the truck. I was laughing, but at the same time I was trying to avoid physical pain. I was excited about a new potential dating prospect while also being scared for how anything in my life was going to end up. Thankfully, the night ended without injury or embarrassment. He never found out (until now) about this, either.
Life is funny. Now when I look back on that night, I laugh. I laugh HARD.
I still totally stand behind my decision and think it has been one of the best purchases I have ever made. However, getting boobs didn’t solve my problems. In some ways, it opened up a huge can of worms. Next week I’ll share where I am now in Part 4.