People are such boobs about boobs and other surgical stuff....

**WARNING** There are pictures of boobs and surgery scars and naked bodies and fat/skinny/sad yo-yo bodies in this blog... if you are easily grossed out- skip this post.

Isn’t “surgery” such a weird word? I’m walking like a hunch back who just pooped in a diaper and address the concerned looks with “surgery” and this is satisfying enough to explain my disposition and yet leaves everyone with the looming question of “what was it!?” I’ve made the usual remarks about having a tail removed or gender re-assignment. It’s given the message that I’m ok… and didn’t really want to talk about it.

 

My boss who is someone who also is super transparent and expects the same of me- sort of left me alone and gave me the chance to “work from home” for the few days I still had my surgical drains in- and she didn’t pry. Upon my return, after I seemed moderately caught up, she closed my office door and was like “ok, tell me…” I gave her the whole shpeel- which is more than I had told most. She asked for pictures of my ‘surgical wounds’ to meditate over so she could ‘long-distance’ promote my healing (reiki, crystals, the lot). I didn’t hesitate to text her the latest mirror shot of me fully naked. She blushed and asked if I had any clothed ones so she could also share with her husband to promote healing. I swallowed my face and I doodled over the sensitive parts and resent it. Now, my boss has the full story and the full monty of my mom parts and matching compartments. Now that she knows, I figured I’d stop being ‘that asshole’ who VagueBooks without a follow-up on what I did. I’m a FB/IG researcher, myself. If someone mentions a breakup or fight, I do the research out of curiosity, so I get it. I also felt like while I took my time for privacy, healing and processing, that the most comfort I received was from the people I shared with who surprised me with their own similar surgeries. I felt like if I could share something that could positively impact someone else’s life- whether as a warning or some empathy or even just a push to get something done that they had been pushing off, then I should.

 

What is flesh? What is a body? The people I genuinely want to appreciate and love my body- DO and if someone wants to judge: Bye, Girl, Bye. And honestly, what is the point of only donating my remains to science posthumously when I can educate and help someone NOW. I can’t tell scientists and student doctors what all of my lifestyle habits were that lead to their mortifying discoveries, but I can help someone now; even if it’s just emotionally.

 

It was weird to have so much downtime. I’m used to doing twelve things at once and this setback literally forced me to spend time in bed. For days. Thinking about what I should do and what wasn’t being done. Watching countless hours of Facebook concerts and beating myself up for missing gigs, aging, looking and feeling frail. I had been such a pro at pain pills for recreation in my past that the 5mg of Percocet they tossed at me like a pack of Tic Tacs was almost insulting. It was weird to use them for legitimate pain and not have a vodka shot to wash it down with. So lame. They didn’t help. They just made me tired, honestly.

 

I’ve chosen to be mum about this particular situation (surgery) for a while, when I’m usually an open book. Mostly, because it was embarrassing and I felt like I needed support and didn’t want judgment. In fact, I steered clear of discussing it with people who would sum it up as “cosmetic” when it was anything but that to me. I didn’t want this. Not like this. I needed to heal and process everything on my own before I cared to deflect the reaction from others.

 

This build up seems as sinister as only saying “surgery.” I’m sorry. You’re going to be disappointed.

 

But hear me out….

 

The day after my first surgery, over ten years ago: judgment:

 

What I should have spent the money on….

How ridiculous to buy into a culture like this.

WHO was it for? Who was I trying to impress?

How superficial to subscribe to a procedure like this…

 

I did my FIRST gig with the ShinDig the next day and stifled the pain. I put makeup over the scars and yelled at my body to hurry up and heal. This would be a pattern I’ve come to know all too well. 

 

Why the embarrassment? What is the shame in talking about the flesh? We all wish for more, for better. We all work to beautify by changing our diets, workouts, adding supplements and buying expensive skin potions to reverse/slow aging. Why is this different? Who determines how modifications are measured by means of extremity? A procedure versus a lifestyle change?

 

My youngest son didn’t know he was overweight until his classmates told him. My daughter didn’t hate her body until her friends told her to. My eldest son didn’t loathe his crooked smile until his cohort told him it was ugly. We are taught to hate ourselves. We are submersed into a culture that compares and contrasts our physical appearances and tells us what to strive for. My self-loathing isn’t innate; it’s inherited.

 

I thought back on how my dad would talk about the “Sam” he dated in high school: a busty red head who all the boys loved. He somehow “won” her until she was discarded like the rest of his vapid conquests. These insights into his life were both interesting and loathsome. I wanted conquests. I always needed to win the best job, the best part. It was an unachievable feat to win dad’s attention and affection and maybe that’s why I fought so hard for it. It’s gas lighting at it’s finest: teaching me I had to be the best and win at everything and then the teacher being the most unattainable carrot of them all. I wanted him to talk about me with the same passion and vigor he did of whomever piqued his interests (not sexually, but as a ‘winner’ or ‘best choice’ among others). I was his only child. It should have been like shooting fish in a barrel that he would have doted on me and only me. He only ever scolded me and ridiculed me. In my baby book, there are pages of first hair clippings and first words. Any parent who has kept one of these knows about the empty subsequent pages we are too busy to ever get to- the ones where you offer updates at age 5, 6, 7, 8 to show growth & milestones. When I was about 5 or 6, I was reading through my baby book and asked my mother to write something. She wrote something cute and thoughtful, doting on my talents and achievements. My father took that same opportunity to write how my teeth were rotten, I still couldn’t ride a bike and was afraid to get my eyes wet in the bathtub. You get my drift.

 

After having kids, I would come visit Florida and I’d would hear him whisper at gatherings about how I let myself go or picked my face to bloody scabs and the makeup didn’t hide it enough. He would blame this trait on my mother. Her bad genes were always the culprit, never the sanctity of seeds from his precious penis pool. 

 

“I just had a baby, Dad…” It was never enough. “Excuses.”

 

You shouldn’t have eaten so poorly during the pregnancy and then you wouldn’t have so much weight to lose afterwards. It’s like you’re creating obstacles for yourself.  More fails. 

 

 

So, I’ve always been a curvy girl. I had decent sized knockers my whole life. After having my kids- and nursing all of them in succession for like five years- I had a lot of weight changes. Being pregnant three times in a row and doing Zumba and losing weight in between had a serious bearing on my body.

 

Before pregnancy, I was in a 125-130 range. In my 20’s, I went up and down the same ten pounds for years.

 

Days before delivering Cody, I went from my usual 130-140 range to almost 200 pounds. Roz came right in after and I peeked around 180.

When we moved to Florida, I got back into dance through Zumba and combined fitness (with a newly discovered gluten intolerance). I went totally vegan for three years and between illness and fitness, I ranged between 117-125.

 

I got pregnant with Baz and got up to 160 and then back down to the 120’s. After three pregnancies and nursing, I was a bag of skin. I was working so hard on my body and it’s like I’m either drowning in post baby fat or working and toning to be dripping in a skin suit. The whole thing really bothered me, but my breasts were a representation of my womanhood. Seeing them hang: a DD’s worth of a bag with a B-C worth of filling- was emotionally as deflating as they appeared. I felt ugly. It wasn’t about anyone else’s perception… I felt sad and uncomfortable with myself. Zumba, diet, skin creams…nothing would fix it.  

 

I got into my first post-baby band (The ShinDig) and I couldn’t fathom going on stage with all the sagging skin and breasts. I was a rocker now after five years of momming and working and I felt that I needed to project the image of a sexy young woman. It took a long time to stop being drawn to maternity wear and to embrace that I had actually returned to my goal weight. 

 

I met with a surgeon and he convinced me of just what I needed. I got a breast lift with two small implants. I still had great boobs under all that skin, but the doctor convinced me that these small, benign little augmentations would restore my sensuality and I’d be thrilled with them. They said these new “gummy bear” types were indestructible, didn’t leak, and were just the most natural and safe decision. I never had surgery before. Never had a broken arm or even a stich. I believed him.

 

And he was right. After the surgery, my breasts looked like they always did and I felt a sense that I got a part of my body back. They weren’t gratuitous or huge. They literally were reshaped and looked like me again. Everyone kept asking about them and it was like a compliment mixed with judgment. My new breasts had elicited public discussion of MY body.

        

“Oh my gosh! You have great breasts! Are they real?”  I was asked that many times in my adult life, but this was the first time I had to grapple with answering that they weren’t “real” by the inquisitor’s standards. But they were… They were really mine. They looked like they did before I had babies. I felt the need to be truthful, but to offer clarification that I just got new ones because <points to offspring> they destroyed them.

 

I didn’t get them to be noticeable for everyone else. This “real” discussion was invasive and annoying. After a while, I would only admit to a lift. Why was everyone so comfortable asking me such intimate details about such a sensitive and protected part of a woman’s body? “Because you put them out there” a friend would say… but I wanted to wear them out. Why should I stifle them or make alternative choices NOW that I had them fixed? They were mine. Restored. One small piece of my body mushed back into where it was before it was just a vessel for growing and feeding babies. Why did I have to downplay or apologize or defend something that was beautiful and admired?

 

It’s like when someone gets engaged and has a beautiful diamond ring and someone comments how beautiful it is: Totally appropriate. “I hope you said ‘yes’” is the most invasive statement I’ve ever remarked about a ring. Is it real? That’s being an asshole. Of course it’s real. A real zirconia. A real diamond. A real piece of material that symbolizes a sentiment/commitment meant to be valued at more than the object itself. Why do your subjective feelings towards value have to impact/insult mine?

  

I stopped talking about it and swatted away the remarks and nosey probing into my chest. These remarks usually are made by jealous assholes who weren’t actually cheering me on, but needed a reason that my breasts weren’t as beautiful as they appeared –in order to support their own insecurities. I’d admit to a lift when prodded. I left it at that.

 

That was 2011. 

 

In 2017, I had a hard lump that showed under my shirts. To be crass, it looked like a chemo port. I had lots of tests (MRI, Mammo, US, and Biopsy) before having it removed. I had drains put in after the removal and for days and days, I wept wondering if I had cancer. I cried during the biopsy. I cried during gigs. I cried at work to my sociopathic boss. I cried to my best friend that I wouldn’t get to walk my daughter down the aisle. 

After a grueling two weeks, I got the call. It was Pseudoangiomatous Stromal Hyperplasia (also known as PASH) that is a rare, non-cancerous breast lesion caused by an overgrowth of myofibroblastic cells. An acronym that meant something banal & benign and who’s absence left my breast with a gaping deformed-appearing hole. Some of the tissue grew back, but something wasn’t ever fully right. 

 

In the years to come, I would get sick. Like autoimmune symptoms. A lot of weight gain. Skin issues. More weight gain. I got up to 177 at my highest. I felt tired and sick- all the time. I struggled and went up and down in weight a lot. I had a job where I was being emotionally and psychologically abused every day. I was surrounded by severely depressed and psychotic mental health patients and I was absorbing a tremendous amount of toxicity there. I ate my feelings away and hid in my office. The fear and ridicule rendered me immobile. The reflection of my innards were vastly displayed across my body. Alcohol consumption was also playing a significant part in my weight gain. I wasn’t ever knock-down drunk. I mostly drank socially and at gigs. The more social, the more gigs, the more booze. I had to stay sober enough to perform, but I drank enough to loosen up after being terrorized at work all day and the booze and subsequent fried food choices that followed were a set-up for disaster.

 

Recently, I was just sick of the insecurity that came with the weight. I was sick of leaning into being heavy, dealing with back pain and being overly insecure and hating on healthy people; constantly being leery of everyone’s intentions around me because I was so insecure. I felt so ugly.

 

I started with a friend’s challenge to do squats and planks and other exercises (10 of each), and increase the reps each night.

 

I reduced my food portions and drank more water. I tried to move more, walk, exercise, eat better, eat less… The effort showed. People around me noticed and honestly… it was kind of annoying to have people recognize me for losing weight because I felt like I was just getting back to me. It was like the boob thing all over again. There was a compliment mixed with accusations/questions of which medications were making me thin. This almost forced me to over-explaining that being ‘swollen’ was a byproduct of many things and not my baseline. My efforts and lifestyle choices were bringing me back to ME. I wanted the recognition and applause, but I didn’t want people ‘weighing in’ on me just returning to my prior form.

 

Some lesser friends were annoyed and threatened by my efforts towards health. Physical health extended to my surroundings. I was accused of taking pills or doing something other than taking control. My job at the time, the people and toxicity I chose to keep around me all contributed to the gain. Eliminating habits and people who pigeon- holed me and refused to let me grow is what shed the pounds. I reduced interactions and codependency on people who mischaracterized me for their personal gain and deflection from their own work. After the shed of toxicity, I was ready to see if shedding more would help me stop feeling sick and stuck. 

 

For years…I always had this fatigue. An internal itching and soreness in the breast where the tumor was removed. I had normal mammograms for years. A few weeks ago, the exam was abnormal. They said it looked like the left breast appeared to have “leakage” on the ultrasound even though the implant looked in tact on the mammogram. I assured them what I had been assured- that this “brand” was incapable of leaking. The radiologists started to recommend MRIs and biopsies and the whole process again. The ordering GYN and my PCP were clearly informed of the results and were all calling me to set up emergent appointments. I did not want to go through it all again. I went back to the surgeon and presented my case. He suggested total removal of the implants and surrounding breast tissue or “margins” as he kept saying… and a lift. He mentioned replacements. I said no. He agreed it was a wise choice. I told him all of the things I wished he could ‘fix’ on my body and how sad I was to have to do this. He said he could take that extra skin off of my stomach that had been bothering me while I was under anesthesia for a bit more money. The office manager said outpatient/elective procedures are at the mercy of the pandemic, could be halted altogether again fairly soon, and the costs of anesthesia was going up. She said now was the time to knock everything out of the way if that’s what I ever intended to do. I hastily agreed.

  

I told my boss that I needed surgery. She looked concerned but honored my tight-lipped delivery. I told her I would tell her everything eventually but wanted to keep this close to 'my chest' for a while. She honored that.

 

So, on Tuesday (9/14/21), I had a minor abdominoplasty and breast lift/ implant removal. I went in, laid down and sort of gave my body to them to do with it what they wanted to. I woke up in what seemed like seconds. I asked the OR/RN to take pictures from my phone for me. She raised an eyebrow, but agreed. 

One looked fine, the other was completely ruptured, yellow and decayed. That other sexy bit is about half of the stomach skin I wish they could have taken. 

The surgeon said he got “everything out.” He said he removed “all the margins” and is sending the implant remains to a claims department. He said if I “win”, I could get money back or an offer for a new set of boobs. I declined the latter. I reminded him how awful the word “margins” is when speaking about something you hope is non-cancerous. He smirked.

 

My best friend was there to pick me up. I had three drains hanging from my body. I felt groggy and weak. He forced me to cancel gigs for the weekend (thankfully, because I never would have done it on my own). I even worked from home for a few days and just didn’t move.

A week later, I had the drains removed. That was the worst part.

   

Now, we wait for pathology and whatever litigious claim the surgeon filed on my behalf.

 

As of today, I am a week and two days out. I sang last night for the first time. I’m sore and I’m wearing an abdominal binder that I wear 24/7 (except for showers) until next week and then I convert into a waist trainer for another 4 weeks and then I can exercise and take baths again.

 

That was it. That was my ‘surgery.’ The stitches are tight and ugly. I feel shooting pains and I think my breasts are small and unsightly. I’m still processing. I’m looking forward to working out and feeling good in my body and I hope the rest of me catches up. I feel sad. I feel nervous. I don’t know when the results will be back in, but the doctor seemed confident that anything that could have been bad is gone. I feel clearer. I feel introspective. I feel like some of the toxicity I didn’t even realize that was there has gone and now I feel a duty to keep things cleaner.

 

So… you guys: implants have to get replaced. Like every 10-15 years. And they (any brand) can rupture and can make you sick.

 

You aren’t your body. You should not feel shame in modifying it if you want to. You can talk about it or not. It’s none of anyone else’s business. You don’t HAVE to disclose what you have done to your body or not.

 

And maybe those who pass judgment and have genuine curiosities can frame it more sensitively?

 

“Wow! You have a beautiful body. I am working on my own body. Can I ask what you do to firm, tone, or keep your breasts perkier? If not, that’s ok. I’m just hoping to fix myself and I am looking for options/inspiration/empathy/advice…”

 

Or “You are beautiful!!” #fullStop

 

But not: “Are those real?”

 

And don’t assume everything that falls under cosmetic was a willing, exciting choice. Some of the women I know with the best breasts were “blessed” with cosmetic reconstruction after a double mastectomy due to cancer. Some people are modifying their bodies to try and feel happy because they’re fighting an internal battle that is so much deeper and more meaningful than your immediate perception.

 

In brief: Be kind.