My breast implants that I got back in 2000 have been recalled. Some personal health issues, the recall, avoiding a higher cancer risk and sparing my lower back helped me make the decision to explant.
I am an anxious person, so worrying about the surgery is to be expected. What I didn’t expect is to feel like I’m mourning the loss of my breasts. Yes, I know it’s shallow. I chose to get these implants twenty years ago for cosmetic reasons. I was assured I’d always be able to get mammograms and no one ever mentioned them causing a rare cancer.
I never felt particularly “womanly”. I was a tomboy with a fairly athletic build and felt like a dude. Call me captain of the itty bitty titty committee. I was picked on, comments about my figure, or lack there of, were made all the time. Men, other women, even my grandmothers, all felt fine with letting me know I was not well endowed. Some were meant to hurt me, most weren’t meant maliciously but stung none the less. My flat chest was something I hated, hid and camouflaged. Victoria’s Secret was that I was always wrapped in several inches of wonder foam (I doubt it was really a secret).
I decided to get “boob job”. I did my due diligence, researched doctors. I wrote up a long list of questions to be answered. Made sure I could nurse babies if I got implants inserted under the muscle. I made sure my doctor was an accredited member of all the right boards. I researched his malpractice records and the reputation of the surgical center.
After my surgery I was pleased with the results. I recovered quickly and loved my new womanly shape. It was intoxicating to fill out a tank top. I felt so confident in a bikini finally. I was a little shocked that life in general really didn’t change all that much. My internal feeling of happiness didn’t go up, and I really thought it would. I just knew if I could fix this one thing that I had fixated on for so long that everything would be different, except it wasn’t. The only thing that changed was my bra size and getting a little more attention from men that I could care less about. I felt like the 360cc’s of saline had insulated me from hurtful comments.
Brad and I had been dating for over a year when I had my surgery. He was opposed to it at first, not a boob guy 🤣. He was worried I would change and leave him. I didn’t want to change my appearance for him or for anyone. I wanted to feel happy and confident. I was chasing the idea that a perfect body would make me happy.
I’m extremely lucky that my surgery was an easy one. I went from a 34AA to a 34D in just a matter of hours. After college and marriage I really didn’t think of my chest as much. Life was busy, we were moving, learning to be married.
When I got pregnant the only thing I worried about was being able to attempt to nurse. I didn’t have strong feelings one way or another about breast feeding, but I am lazy and didn’t want to be up at night fixing bottles. When we had Turner I am so glad I gave nursing a try. I breast fed both of our babies for 18 months. It was one of the best experiences of my life. Neither Turner or Tate has ever had an ounce of formula. I think doing what works for you and your family is the most important thing. Nursing just worked for us. I loved that bond I had with my babies. I loved our time together, quiet nights holding them. I cherished the early morning snuggles that belonged to just the two of us, but that much nursing definitely took a toll on my body. Having implants and adding nursing made me have comical proportions. Loose skin and stretch marks were such a small price to pay for so many happy moments. That connection made me happier than I had ever felt.
Now 15 years later it’s not the perky breasts of the summer of 2000 I’m mourning. It’s the thought of having a lot of what I held my babies against taken away. My “girls” put in a lot of work. They fed two healthy babies for 3 solid years. They’ve held babies, teased my husband, they’ve been squeezed into party dresses, been pushed back up for the occasional date night, they’ve been cussed for making swimsuit shopping so difficult and been smack dab in the middle of every single hug that I have given for over half my life. It’s scary thinking of being left with nothing.
I know it’s vain. I know I am not my bra size. I know happiness is not dependent on my figure. My happiness didn’t change when I got them, I suspect the same will be true when I loose them. This surgery isn’t one I am looking forward to the physical results after. This time going under I’m hoping to have a healthier future. Lessen my chances of cancer and auto immune issues while saving my lower back as a bonus. Even though my head knows it’s silly, my ego is still fretting loudly.
Having the first surgeon I met with tell me I won’t look like a woman anymore with out replacing the implants was hard. Fearing the scaring, worrying if my husband will still want me. It is all a lot of emotion to sit in. Brad has proven his love for me over and over. We have been through so much together, I doubt this will even make the top ten of our trials, but still I worry.
I’m still a tomboy, my shape will just match my vibe soon. I will always love working out and I pray to keep my muscular arms as long as I can. I also pray I feel confident rocking dude arms when I don’t have the Jessica Rabbit ta-tas to offset them.
It’s important how I go through this. I have a very athletic, beautiful daughter watching me. I want her to see me embrace my natural figure. I don’t want her to think her body is lacking in any way, because it’s not. She is so much more confident than I ever was, but I know she notices everything. I want Tate to see me love a body that will soon be a much more realistic example of her physical future. It is so important that I love myself, so I can model self acceptance for her.
Having my son saved me. When I had a child I truly understood God’s love and sacrifice for me. Having a daughter forced me to love myself in many ways I never had. Tate watches what I eat. I had to get help and learn to cope with my disordered eating. Having Tate forced me to deal with my eating disorders. I couldn’t model those horrible behaviors to her. I had to learn to enjoy cookies, learn moderation. I had to become able to eat out, off plan and not weigh and measure every ounce of food I consumed. I had to make myself eat for enjoyment, not starve for punishment. Having Tate saved my life in the same way having Turner helped to save my soul.
This is all the rambling of an over thinking mom who is worried about what I’ll see when I wake up from surgery. Can I love my new shape? How hard of an adjustment will it be to go from a 34DDD to a 34A? Why does it matter? God don’t make junk. He does make paths for me to show me what I need to do. He helps me learn the lessons I need to be ready for the next season.
I’m sharing this so I feel less alone. I’m sharing for the other women who go through this kind of self doubt and self criticism. I get lost in my worry and have always felt better once I let it out. So if you a little less of me, this is why. The plan is to go in during the first week of May. Prayers and good vibes are so appreciated. I found a great surgeon who specializes in safe removal of the implants and all affected tissues. I’ve prayed about it, I felt safe and comfortable with this surgeon. We’ve talked about it as a family and all agree it’s the right time. My Mom and Dad agree too and are the biggest support. After talking with Mama today I felt a peace wash over me and knew this was the next right thing.
Here’s to 2020 and all the small things it brings. Smaller me, smaller worry, less in between me and my family when I hug them, and smaller fears. 💜
