As my breasts grew, it became increasingly difficult to find flattering clothes. Forget empire waists, button-downs, and spaghetti straps; anything strapless was out of the question as well. My ungodly breasts had such a disorienting effect on men that those who appeared to be average upstanding citizens would lose all self-control. Even nice men would forget that it is not okay to ask a young woman in public if he can "kiss your pretty titties." And it wasn't just in public that my boobs were causing problems; those two were troublemakers in the sack as well. I had come dangerously close to giving men black eyes while riding the ol' baloney pony, not to mention compromising my own safety. My breasts had become an impairment of sorts: I couldn't go running. I couldn't sleep on my stomach. I could no longer do back handsprings, something I used to be very good at. Oh, and did I mention that my shoulders really, really hurt?
Being stacked isn't all bad, of course. There was certainly an upside (as long as I wore a really supportive bra). I was young and pretty and I had big boobs. Men loved me, and I loved men, and I wasn't averse to having my pretty titties kissed. In short, I wasn't one of those frumpy, repressed girls in oversized sweatshirts attempting to conceal their heavenly soap cakes. My wardrobe consisted of a lot of cute little fitted shirts and skirts. Plenty of inappropriate creeps gave me trouble (I avoided construction sites), but I welcomed the attention my big boobs afforded me when it was conveyed in a charming, polite way (especially from boyish nerds). Not being able to walk down the street without getting a marriage proposal or two resulted in my going through periods of mildly delusional narcissism, but then I'd go to Victoria's Secret and leave entirely depressed and frustrated--my boobs didn't come close to fitting into their measly D cups.
Then late one night, as I slept fitfully, trying to get comfortable on my stomach--which was always an awkward position for me--tossing and turning for what seemed like hours, I suddenly I had an epiphany: Enough was enough.
The Cutting Edge
One night I was watching the Learning Channel, and Operation came on. Fate was calling: The show was entitled "Breast Reduction." I couldn't ask for more as far as pre-op education goes. The show centered on a thirtysomething woman who was sick of her DD breasts interfering with her intense passion for running marathons. Unlike me, she was very self-conscious about her shape, and hid her breasts under big shirts. Despite our differing coping mechanisms, I could relate to her frustration with unusually large breasts seriously getting in the way of everyday activity. I was on the edge of my seat while cameras filmed her surgery. It was incredibly gory and invasive: burning flesh and breasts sliced up like pumpkin pies while the patient sits upright, completely sedated. Before they wheeled her out of the operating room they showed an obscene shot of her breasts patched together like quilts. Even so, they didn't look that bad, and things would only get better. I've got a stomach of steel, and a couple of bloody boobies weren't about to stop me.
I did some Internet research on breast reduction surgery.
Before and after pictures gave me a good idea of what I could expect as far as a finished product, my major concern being scarring and the overall cosmetic result. I was willing to cope with a temporary war zone, but I didn't want Frankenboobs forever. I was impressed with what I saw. Sure, women at only a month post-op looked pretty beat up, but after the incisions had time to heal and fade, they were barely noticeable. My huge boobs were causing so much back pain and obstruction in my life that I was willing to trade those honkers in for a smaller, scarred set.
Another factor that prevents women from deciding to take the leap and lop off their extra boobage is the issue of breastfeeding. Fortunately, surgical techniques have progressed to the point that most milk ducts can be left intact throughout surgery. The most common outcome for patients is that they are able to breastfeed, but sometimes have to supplement with formula. There are no guarantees, though. And the ability to breastfeed is only feasible for those women who have a type of procedure called the Pedicle Method (which I had), where the nipples are not detached from the nerves during surgery. A small percentage of women undergo a technique called Free Nipple Graft, which is performed when the breast is so large and the nipple dropped so low, the surgeon has no choice but to completely detach the nipples, set them on ice during the operation (!), and then reattach them at the end of the procedure. Women who choose this method will lose the ability to breastfeed, and their nipples can no longer become erect (time to retire from those wet T-shirt contests). Basically, their nipples will feel and function like the skin on the rest of their breast: soft and nice, but unable to take a stand. (Free Nipple Grafts are only necessary for a very small number of women, so if you are considering a breast reduction and your surgeon recommends the FNG, get at least one other opinion. In making my decision to have the operation I did think about breastfeeding, and decided that were I ever to have children, I can live with the possibility of needing to use supplemental formula when nursing. And besides, if my breasts were already a J cup, think of what they'd be like when engorged with milk!)
It was time to find a surgeon.
I'm lucky enough to be pals-y with a few doctors, and they sent me in the direction of a very fine plastic surgeon. At my initial consultation I met Dr. W, a knife-wielding woman who came highly recommended. It felt weird being in a plastic surgeon's office. I wondered what the other people in the waiting room were there for. A middle-aged businessman--penile implants? A menopausal woman with big hair and a huge diamond on her finger--face-lift? Tummy tuck? And, of course, there were women on the opposite end of the spectrum from me, those getting breast implants. If only I could give them some of mine!
After I was escorted to a private exam room, the doctor took a look at my breasts (and copped a few feels) and said I was a great candidate for a reduction. I looked at her portfolio and asked about a billion questions, all of which she answered patiently. Then the bad news: Apparently my insurance company wasn't one to easily give up the green for breast reductions, even when they're medically necessary. They had denied every initial request for the last three years; I was potentially looking at a yearlong fight. I almost cried. Then I got proactive. My primary care provider was the first person to arm me for prospective battle. He wrote a letter of support that stated (in official medical jargon, mind you), "Marie has unnaturally large breasts that are causing all sorts of back problems." Next, I wrote my own letter--a convincing but true and candid correspondence from one human being to another. Then I got down on my knees and prayed.
Amazingly enough, not two weeks later my insurance company said yes.
I was immediately on the horn to the plastic surgeon's office to schedule my surgery. I could hear the secretary flipping the pages of her calendar. "Looks like we're booked solid for the next three months."
A wave of anticlimactic disappointment. Three more months of aching shoulders. Three more months of hazardous-to-your-health sex. Three more months of under-the-boob sweat.
"Oh wait," the secretary said. "We had a cancellation for Thursday.... Can you do it?"
Thursday was the day after tomorrow. A split second of butterflies, palpitations, and electrons zipping through my entire body.
"Yes. Yes, I can do it."
Reduction Junction
After telling my boss I'd be MIA for two weeks, I hit the stores to prepare for battle. My shopping list went something like this: crushed ice, extra pillows, easy-to-prepare food, a ton of magazines, several button-front shirts (I wouldn't be able to lift my arms over my head for at least two weeks), and $200 worth of new pajamas (one wants to be fashionable when convalescing after breast-mutilating surgery). Normally I would have a pre-op appointment with my surgeon, but because of the immediate surgery, there was no such luxury. Most women take Polaroids of their big boobs before the operation, but since I had posed for some nude portraits in the past, this was already taken care of. (The egomaniacal phase, remember?) On the big day, I had to get to the hospital about eight o'clock in the morning. It wasn't until I was actually admitted to my room that a significant case of anxiety set in. What if something goes horribly wrong? What if they accidentally cut a nerve and I can't feel my nipples anymore? What if I do something really embarrassing while under deep anesthesia? God, what if I have a bowel movement on the table?
After filling out paperwork I put on one of those hideous pastel hospital gowns. A nurse hooked me up to an IV and drew some blood before the arrival of the anesthesiologist, who I made promise not to put me to sleep for all eternity. Then it was time to wait. Someone brought in a portable TV and a couple of videotapes. Since I was starting to freak out I welcomed the distraction, even if I only had Hilarious Sports Bloopers and I Love Lucy to choose from. After I watched Lucy get drunk on vitamin elixir three times (did you really think I was going to watch a bunch of old geezers get hit in the crotch by golf balls?), my plastic surgeon finally arrived. She took another look at my breasts and went over issues that would have been discussed in a pre-op appointment, such as size. Now I like a good-sized boob, so I asked to come out somewhere in the big-C-cup range. The doctor took out a purple surgical pen (a good sign: purple is my favorite color) and showed me where the incisions would be made. My nips, she assured me, would stay attached to the nerves and blood supply throughout the whole ordeal, so there wasn't much danger of losing any feeling.
I was still pretty nervous when the anesthesiologist returned. "I'm going to give you something to help you relax," she said, and pushed some medicine into my IV. That was the last thing I remembered before waking up in recovery.
The anesthesiologist was at my bedside when I woke up in the post-op area feeling incoherent and uncomfortable. As she fed me ice chips, she reassured me that everything went well. (Yeah, the ice chips were a little weird. But I was really thirsty.) Then I fell back to sleep and woke up in my hospital room, and shortly afterward a close friend arrived at my bedside to take care of me. (It is much easier to forgive tardiness when you are a nonsensical, sedated train wreck.) Over the next 24 hours I was treated to several servings of vanilla pudding and a lot of morphine. It was great. In a way it felt like I had been hit by a truck, but at the same time things weren't unbearable. How could they be? I was high as a kite and being tended to by a really cute male nurse who, unfortunately, was a homo. I was discharged the next morning with a packet of instructions and a follow-up appointment in two weeks.
The next 14 days were a blur; I spent most of my time on the couch propped up by several pillows, surrounded by reading material and rented movies. My love for The NeverEnding Story was revived; my tolerance for Cosmo was nullified. I wandered around the house in white pajamas, doped up on Percocet and daytime television. My breasts hurt a little, but things really weren't so bad. It isn't often that I get to lounge around for two weeks ingesting ungodly amounts of narcotics while watching reruns of Perry Mason and The Golden Girls, two of my all-time favorites. And the luxury of sleep! I haven't been able to sleep in so much since the days of childhood summer vacations.
After two weeks, I reluctantly returned to work. Most everyone knew the reason for my absence, but those who didn't (mostly male acquaintances) said things like, "Marie, I see you've made some big changes." Yessiree.
After surgery, I made the decision to take some time off from dating. Having never been a big fan of horror films, I wasn't about to put on a live show in my bedroom. We're talking some pretty nasty bruises, swollen nipples, and occasional seepage during the first month. Not exactly Playboy material (but hot stuff for some fetish publication, no doubt). I couldn't even wear a bra for two months. One would think these potentially awkward situations would be enough to keep me off the meat market for a long, long time, but alas, my hormones have no patience. Within a few weeks, half a dozen gentlemen had been, uh, mysteriously lured into my boudoir. My doc instructed me to massage my breasts twice daily for the first few months to reduce the buildup of scar tissue--and I could have done it myself, but there was never any shortage of young men willing to help. To avoid any nasty surprises, I was entirely forthright. Shockingly enough (or not, considering how "eager" men are as a rule), my surgery didn't stop anyone from venturing below the bra. Sure, there was "Does this hurt?" No. "How about this? Does this hurt?" No. "How about this?" Yes, that hurts, but being chewed on like raw meat hurt before I had surgery, too.
Half a Rack
Almost nine months later, things are looking good. The incisions have faded to a pretty-in-pink hue, and in time they'll be practically invisible. My breasts have settled into a beautiful shape, and my nipples are sweet little things that feel like electri-city at the innocent brush of a hand. Mmm-hmm! Altogether my surgeon took off about five pounds. That's what's really cool about the surgery; I got to choose size, shape--almost like boob shopping. And speaking of shopping, finding a 36C bra is a whole lot easier than tracking down a 38J. Victoria's Secret, here I come!
When I decided to have a breast reduction I knew it would affect my life, but I had no idea of all the physical, emotional, and social implications it would entail. For the first time in ages, I feel like a real girl. I never considered my cartoonish big boobs to encapsulate my entire identity, but they were at least part of it. That part is now gone forever, and I've had to come to terms with a new reality. I'm still a sex kitten; any wise man or woman knows that comes from the inside. Big issues aside, even the little day-to-day things have changed dramatically. I can hug my relatives without feeling weird. I go braless on a regular basis. I hear the word "mamacita" a lot less. I can run. I can jump. Hooray.
