I recently had a breast augmentation and mastopexy
(lift). Why would I bother to share
such a personal experience? Because had
I known exactly what I was getting myself into I think it is quite likely I
would have just learned to live with the sag and merely increased my Victoria’s
Secret budget.
If
I truly am a Heartless Bitch; if am confident and have no self-esteem issues, just
why the hell would I even consider plastic surgery? Because even though we can be confident and in total control in many areas of our life, there are still places where we can have body issues.
In my mind I looked like a woman with the body of a 22 year old
and the breasts of an 80 year old. I
exaggerate to make a point and also because I recognize that our physical flaws
are always much larger and more noticeable in our mind than in the actual perception
of those around us.
The
decision to undergo any kind of elective surgery should never be taken lightly
and I certainly gave myself considerable time.
After many months of research into what the actual procedure entailed
and having a clear understanding of the risks involved I was finally ready to
start interviewing surgeons. Again,
many months passed and I checked out several surgeons and finally found one
that I was confident would give me the results I was looking for. He had an impressive education and an
impeccable reputation both of which were reflected in his fees. However, this is not the time to bargain
hunt. Save money at the discount mall,
clip coupons to your hearts content, shop at second-hand stores, whatever, but
do not choose a surgeon based on cost.
As a matter of fact, I personally don’t think this should even be a
factor when selecting a surgeon.
Prior
to making my final decision, I spoke with several friends and acquaintances
that have had an augmentation about their experience and overall
satisfaction. The number of women who
have had this done, and were willing to talk about it, was surprising. Doesn’t anyone have natural breasts
anymore? I almost felt silly for
waiting so long.
After
many sleepless nights, anxiety attacks and genuine concern over my rising blood
pressure the day finally arrived. My
surgeon recently opened his own surgical facility, state-of-the-art and
over-staffed by public hospital standards with every amenity you could possibly
need. It felt more like a spa than
medical facility. All of this is done
to make patients feel relaxed and at ease.
It certainly worked on me.
The
last thing I remember is talking to a nurse who was explaining to me what each
syringe she so carefully injected into my IV contained. The last one was just something to make me
relax. That was the last one all
right. Lights out.
Less
than three hours later I woke up so whacked out I didn’t even know what day it
was let alone recall where I was and what I was doing there, at least for a few
blissful minutes. This is when some of
the advice I received came in handy. I
had been warned that initially you are quite swollen (duh) and the implants sit
up very high, your boobs literally start right under your neck. Of course, knowing this and seeing this are
two very different things. I
peeked. It was difficult to see much
with all the bandages but it was enough to give me a case of the freakouts
anyway. Yet another good reason for
all those drugs they had given me, I was too far out-of-touch with reality to
care.
I
spent the next three days propped up on pillows with any necessities (water,
phone, drugs, and the TV remote) inches from my hands, my mobility being
severely and I mean severely limited. Think of having your arms attached to
your sides from the shoulder to the elbow and only being able to move your arms
from the elbow down. As you can imagine
this makes even the smallest task such as brushing your teeth, taking a drink
of water or god forbid, using the bathroom, extremely difficult. Any movement that required using muscles
from my neck to my naval was very painful. Try doing something as easy as
getting out of bed without those muscle groups. To complicate things even more,
I had a catheter (containing pain medication) with a tube inserted on the side
of each breast. At this point I felt terribly foolish, having paid so much for
this torture.
Obviously, taking a bath is out of the question but you can shower after two
days. Having realized that the horrible odor that wafted passed my nose on
occasion was coming from me – I chanced the shower. Without assistance this
would have been impossible. This was
the first time that I removed the bandages and could see everything. I knew I had sutures, was swollen and could
expect bruising but nothing prepared me for what I can only describe as what it
must look like to be beaten with a baseball bat. My entire chest area, sides and underneath my breasts were deep
purple and the areas that weren’t as dark were that sickly greenish yellow that
reminds you of things like vomit and snot.
All I could think was, holy shit – what have I done?
At
my initial consultation the surgeon was quite forthcoming with “before” and “after”
pictures, however, the AFTER photos are 3+ months post op. I guess if they showed pictures of the first
few days after surgery (thus giving you a very clear understanding of what to
expect) it would be too much of a deterrent.
Hmm, I wonder if my surgeon will include these pictures,
taken of me two days post-op, in his portfolio? [Warning – graphic]
Even though I did feel better after the shower, my body was swollen and I felt
like the Pillsbury dough boy with concrete breasts. Who knew they could feel this heavy? The next few days were a
drug induced haze but even that can get boring. On day four the catheter was
empty and I couldn’t wait to pull it out (easy to do but kind of creepy). Having the extra “appendage” was a further
hindrance to my mobility.
I felt significantly better by day five and was able to move around though
slowly and rather robotically. I’d say that the progress from then to the
present is actually quite amazing. The
first week was definitely the worst. If
it weren’t for modern pharmaceuticals I don’t know how I would have made it
through.
It
took over three weeks for the bruising to fade to levels that were more like
those you would see on a clumsy child and just as long for the sutures to
finally dissolve. At just about a
month, I’m still sore, still unable to do any form of exercise other than walking
and ironically, that 22 year old body is starting to look and feel like that of
an 80 year old. It will be several more
weeks until I’m back to my old self.
The process is frustrating but then again, I never have been a very
patient patient.
As
for the results? I got exactly what I
asked for – nice shape, fullness and no droop, without looking too noticeably
size-enhanced. They match perfectly and
I’m sure I’ll be pleased with the final result (it takes months for things to
settle). Would I do it again? NEVER, ever, ever, ever. Next time they droop and I know because of
age/time/gravity it will happen, they can just stay there. I can’t really say I regret it but knowing
what I do now I can say that I will never have another invasive procedure done
unless it is to save my life. I could
have saved myself a lot of pain and taken one hell of vacation instead. Live and learn.
- Barbera
