I know. I know. You’re thinking WTF.
A year ago I got a boob job. There… now you know.
Now your thinking am I going to post a pre and post-op photo? No. These are boobs, not a new pair of earrings. If I bought my boobs for all to see that would make me a stripper. A stripper who doesn’t get paid. For one, I wouldn’t do that. Secondly, if I was a stripper I wouldn’t be a charity stripper. I would want a return on my investment. I wouldn’t just flash them for nothing.
After breast feeding two children, the girls were sad and deflated. I wanted to restore them to their once perky glory. Golf husband was supportive. Imagine that?
My consultation visit I brought along my friend Farrah. It was a good choice for me, because we both deal with uncomfortable situations with humor. If we were at your funeral, we will be the ones laughing in the back. We mean absolutely no disrespect. It’s just how we cope.
We get escorted back the the exam room and a nice lady rolls in a box of implants. Great, a boob box. She has a stretchy, one-size-fits-all sports bra for me to wear. Farrah and I began squeezing the various sizes of implants like we were at a fruit stand, but I have the pleasure of trying them on with the fashionable bra. Great. Here is our box of boobs and pick out a pair. I feel extremely uncomfortable with the whole deal. Its like I was 12 stuffing my bra with socks.
According to the ladies at the front desk, the lady with the box of boobs has a very good eye for size. She suggests a size for me. I stuff them into my implant bra and good grief. I guess they look alright, but I don’t think I can see my feet. The goal is to inflate what I’ve got, not look like an adult film star.
I look to my friend for support. Farrah is sitting back with an implant in each hand like she is working two stress balls. She leans back in her chair and accesses the mountains on my chest. She suggests going bigger. Very helpful.
Dr. Ewart comes in and is the complete professional and all business, which of course makes me more uncomfortable. Sarcasm sets me at ease and he is pretty straight laced. We decide on a size and schedule surgery.
The lady who schedules the appointments could sense that I was nervous about size. I told her my husband traced his hand and told me to give that to the doctor. Typical. She suggested I go to http://www.loveyourlook.com. Fortunately, I am an info junky and had already come across that website. It is a good one if you are trying to gage your results. However, I looked at so many boobs I was beginning to feel like a perv.
In the dates leading up to surgery, I was nervous. I’m the type of girl who will give blood, but the chances of me getting cold sweats, passing out, and throwing up are pretty good. So, knowing that they were going to put me under, put a tube down my throat, and cut on me was scary; like run a fever and diarrhea scary. At least I was getting thinner and had a pretty flushed look to my skin, right?
My mother was gracious to come with me the day of surgery. We sat watching tv in the waiting room with another young girl and her mother. At least I was old enough to decide on this in a well thought out process. The girl waiting looked like she had just started her period. My mom was comforting. Occasionally she would stroke my hair or hold my hand. She was with me during an unfortunate necessary surgery pre-op where I lost my marbles several times and knew the drill.
Finally, a lady who could be a ringer for Jessica Tandy calls my name and it was time to go. I may have cried, but I was getting prepped for boobs by Miss Daisy. We get back to a room that was used for tattoos and she takes my temp. It’s 99 degrees. She tells me if it got any higher they would have to reschedule surgery. She then took my wrist to start the IV.
“Don’t let these old hands scare you” she said.
I then looked at her hands. In my opinion, when someone tells you not to worry about something typically it’s because you should be worried. Miss Daisy had very disfigured rheumatoid arthritic hands and was about to stick me with a needle. This needle will stay in my arm for quite a while. Time to change the subject and start praying.
Miss Daisy told me she had worked for the surgery center for years and she just didn’t want to stop working. I can’t say I blame her. I’d want to work there too. It had to be interesting and I bet they gave discounts.
She took me to a gurney holding area in the surgical center. The woman next to me was behind a curtain talking about how whatever she had done was not as bad as the last time. Oh geez. Please God don’t let that be my future. I just wanted my boobs to not look like National Geographic boobs.
Miss Daisy brought me my mom, so I could say goodbye. This was entirely too real now. I was terrified. My mother prayed for me and it was really hard to concentrate being that I was having surgery for boobs. It was open heart surgery or anything. Does God support that? My body is a temple and I was about to undergo some remodeling. Surely, he’d be okay with me feeling good about myself.
The time came for me to go to the surgical table.
“Aren’t you going to give me something for anxiety first?” I asked Miss. Daisy. My legs were probably going to be like jello and I hadn’t eaten since midnight.
She explained that we would have to walk and then the anesthesiologist would give me something. I would be okay. Miss Daisy had my back. Literally. She held the back of my surgical gown, so I wouldn’t moon the lady recovering next to me and we walked the 15 or so feet the the surgical room. It really wasn’t that far, but I was so nervous I could barely speak.
The surgical table had these separate arm rests that stuck out from the side of the table. It felt like I was walking to my crucifixion. I would have to lay there and get strapped into this table. WTF!
Miss Daisy said she would take my glasses. I have the thin lenses for my glasses, but they are still think. I have horrible eye site.
“You be careful with those glasses, Miss Daisy. Don’t start any fires!”
Then I was out…