Finding shirts and bras and dresses that fit became a chore; I spent a fortune on alterations. Before my surgery, I was something like a 32 H. When I looked in the mirror, all I saw were BOOBS. However, men always seemed to like them and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t sometimes like the attention my breasts got me. Sometimes my big rack made me feel sexy and empowered. However, I didn’t really like my boobs upstaging me; I would rather men be attracted to my intelligence, my humor. Or in terms of physical features, my eyes, or my smile. I never wanted to be flat-chested, but I longed for breasts more in proportion to the rest of me, which is relatively petite. I’m curvy but short (5'3"). I used to joke with one boyfriend that I felt like a tall, voluptuous woman who had been compressed, like a smushed Jessica Rabbit. RELATED: Why Drinking Coffee Makes Your Boobs Smaller I read a few articles about women who had gotten reductions, but that seemed too drastic. I talked with one friend of a friend who’d had it done and said she was very happy with the results. Still, for years it was something I only very casually entertained. Then suddenly, in 2014, I found myself with really, really good health insurance and I thought, well, it couldn’t hurt to get a consultation with a surgeon. I had gained some weight and my breasts were even more pendulous and annoying. So I went to see a plastic surgeon at the Mayo Clinic in April. He took some measurements and said I was basically an ideal candidate and that getting the insurance approval would be no problem. He took some pictures (they blur your face out, allegedly) to send to the insurance company, along with my file. RELATED: Amber Rose Breast Reduction Photos (Before/After) And New Details On Her Procedure The surgeon told me it would take 3-4 weeks to hear back from the insurance company and once they green-lighted me, I could schedule the procedure. At this point, I was still not totally sold, but I was intrigued. It seemed like the best time to do it if I was ever going to. I wasn’t working over the summer, so I’d have plenty of time to recover, and this might be the only time I would have insurance to cover it.In May, I got approved. And weirdly, once that happened, the decision sort of made itself. I historically agonize over minor decisions (Caesar or spinach salad?) but make major decisions (like moving to Wisconsin) without hesitation and this was no different. I scheduled my surgery for July 1, a Tuesday. I would stay overnight in the hospital for observation and then was told I’d need about a week to 10 days recuperating in bed before I could resume my normal activities. I was most afraid of the pain of recovery. I’d never had major surgery and it was estimated that I would be under anesthesia for 4 hours. The plan was to remove about 2 lbs from each breast. I was also nervous about compromising my ability to breastfeed (about 1/3 of women can’t after breast reductions), but since having a child is not something on the immediate horizon for me, it seemed odd to factor that in too heavily. Plus, some women have difficulties breastfeeding even if they haven’t had surgery. When I called my dad to tell him I was having this done, he said he wanted to come to help out. I didn’t think it would be necessary, but in hindsight, it was a really good thing he was there. My boyfriend at the time had just started a new, demanding job and had a young daughter, so I think it would have been too much for him to take care of me for a week. Instead, he took in my cat so I wouldn’t have to worry about her jumping on me and clawing my stitches accidentally. In the days leading up to Tuesday, July 1, I made preparations. I bought a tray for eating in bed, as well as some button-down pajamas (I had been told that moving my arms/pulling things over my head would be painful for a few days) and some loose-fitting nursing bras with no underwire. I loaded up my Netflix queue and my Kindle. Cleaned my apartment. And planned my farewell party for my bosoms, which included ordering a boob cake and, of course, slippery nipple shots. The party was on Saturday, and I took lots of photos so I would remember my old boobs. I wore my bustiest, most cleavage-revealing dress to show off The Girls one last time. My dad drove up from St. Louis on Sunday and I showed him key locations in town (the pharmacy, the grocery store, the hospital). He came with a case of wine, God bless him. On Monday, I had my pre-op appointment, where the surgeon marked on my breasts where he would cut. That was a little unnerving. Tuesday morning, we drove to the hospital. I got checked in and met with my anesthesiologist. Around 11 am, I was wheeled to the operating room. And that’s the last thing I remember. I woke up as I was being wheeled into my room where I would be sleeping for the night. I was pretty out of it, but not in much pain. My dad and boyfriend were waiting there. The surgeon said the procedure had taken less time than expected (he had thought my tissue would be denser than it turned out to be). I was really, really thirsty and my lips were super dry; I kept asking for water. I managed to eat some tomato soup and then I slept for a long time. A nurse came in to check on me and give me antibiotics and painkillers every few hours. I also needed help getting up to pee. I felt sore, but again, the pain was really not bad. I was wrapped up tight, like a mummy. The next morning, the surgeon came back to change my bandages and take a look. This was terrifying. I was really afraid to look down and see my mangled body. So I didn’t look down, I looked straight ahead and tried (unsuccessfully) not to cry. My body had undergone trauma and I felt very vulnerable. He said everything looked good and that in two days, I could shower and change from bandages into one of my nursing bras. I went home and my dad cooked for me for the next few days. I mostly slept. I was afraid of falling over in the shower, so he bought me a plastic chair to sit in. My boyfriend helped me with the first shower, washed my hair. Again, when it came time to unwrap/expose my chest, I freaked out and started crying. I can’t explain why, it was just a reaction I had. It took a long time before I was willing to look at my new boobs. After about 5 days, I felt almost like myself again. I only needed the hardcore painkillers for a couple of days before regular Tylenol was enough. The physical pain was so much more minor than I had thought it would be. The emotional repercussions, that I didn’t even anticipate, on the other hand, have been harder to navigate. Other than an allergic reaction to the strips of fabric placed over my sutures that resulted in a few miserable days of itchiness and hives, and one spot under my right breast that stubbornly wouldn’t close up, the healing process was fine. The hardest adjustment was having to sleep on my back for a few months. Now I’m totally back to normal. I can sleep on my stomach and wear normal bras. And clothes fit a lot better! RELATED: 14 Brutal Truths About Loving Someone With Body Dysmorphia Disorder I knew I would want to write about this experience, but I really wasn’t ready to until some time had passed; there was a lot to process. To be clear: I am very happy with the results and do not regret getting the surgery. But I didn’t realize that losing a familiar part of me, even a part I had resented and disliked for years, would be, well, emotionally upsetting. My giant breasts were my breasts. And these new breasts don’t feel like mine yet. I’m terribly shy about them. The scars aren’t bad at all and I have feeling in them (thankfully) but I’m still pretty self-conscious about them. I can’t decide if they are beautiful. When I shower now, I don’t look down at them much. They still seem foreign, alien, like someone else’s boobs. I hope over time I will come to love them. Katie is a writer, poet, and educator. She has been published in the Minneapolis Star Tribune, The Verge, and Time Out New York/Boston/Chicago. Follow her blog. This article was originally published at The Vagnino Monlogues. Reprinted with permission from the author.
