Scream If You Have to

You won’t believe this…even after you read it.

The story starts out basically understandable. I had recently given birth to two children. My body had bounced back but only because I worked my ass off to get it back. However, the breasts were an entity of their own, completely unresponsive to exercise and diet. They flapped, they sagged. They had gone from a very full C cup, to a sad little flat something with chest bone showing. My measurements are of no coincidence, however. What happened to me was negligence.

Here is the story…me: age 31, wife, mother of two, age 3 ½ and 1 ½ . I developed very early and was “gifted” (according to some) in the area of boobies. I had full C cups. However, I was never very fond of them. Truth be told if someone asked me “who is hotter, breast wise, Cameron Diaz or Scarlett Johansson”, I would go with Cam in a heart beat.

After I had my first child, my breast shrank to a medium C that I was really happy with. Life goes on and after my second child they became deflated and flat with chest bone showing. Yummy. I explained to my doctor during my consultation, I wanted to get back to where I was in between my two children. I did not want to fill up all the skin I had or to enlarge my breast so that they fit my body according to the typical plastic surgeon. I am tall. And I quote the doctors “you should always go bigger. Every woman wishes she had gone bigger after the surgery” Crazy, and yes I am aware of the growing population of women who walk around with giant fake breasts. This is why. Unbelievable. I was not interested in defying gravity. I wanted natural. I was not trying to look like a well endowed 16 year old, a porn star, or a cougar living in Orange County. I wanted to look like myself, a regular 31 year old mother of two.

My first visit to my doctor was for a consultation. This doctor was referred to me by a good girl friend that had the same procedure a couple years prior. I met with the nurse first. I told her I might just want a breast lift since I wasn’t interested in increasing my cup size. I told her at the largest I wanted to be a small C cup. Funny enough, I was wearing a size C bra, just not filling it. Next, the doctor came in and she said “So, I hear you want bigger boobs?” A little taken back, I assumed this was just a cute opener she used. I replied, “No, actually I don’t.” I told her I was basically happy with my size, it was the sagging and protruding breast bone that was turning me off. Maybe I just wanted a lift. She said I did not need a lift, which was very invasive, and that a very small implant, 250cc, would accomplish the look I wanted. She was pretty confident. Therefore so was I.

The next step in this process is the “pre-op” appointment. The nurse went over forms, asked questions, told me risks and possible complications…but I was just waiting for the “tryout”. The moment when they bring out the size of implant you discussed with the doctor so you can pop that baby in your bra and check it out. So, I waited. And finally I reminded her. “Can I try one out”? She comes in the room armed with some monster size water balloons. “What the?” is pretty much what I said. I calmed myself and asked politely, “um, what size are those?” She replies, “400cc”. Holy….that is way too big. I said check the notes again. She came back with my little 250cc. Better. Phew. Note to self: I should have been worried then. I was about to fall through the boobie crack.

Next up is the day of the surgery. I get there, change into a gown and chat with the check-in nurse. Who, by the way has giant boobies. DD and says she loves them. She says she used to look just like me. Ugh. Without offending her I respectfully listened. That was not for me, no f…in’ way. Honestly, no judgment on her but I am very athletic, I teach Pilates, I run marathons, I am a full-time mom of two very small children. That’s my life. I wanted breasts, not jugs.

The doctor came into the room and began marking my chest. I felt a little bit like a page in my son’s coloring book. Whatever. The doctor did not look me in the eye, to reconnect and be sure we were on the same page for my implant size. Like a child, I assumed she knew what she was doing. After the coloring session, I was lead to the operating table. The rest is history, as they say. Night, night.

When I woke up from surgery I looked down at my chest and just about jumped out of my skin. I had huge boobies. In fact, at that size, they are no longer boobies. To my horrification, my breast had become hooters, jugs, knockers. OMG, how big are these? The DD nurse says “they are 400cc, you’ll look great”. Was I being PUNK’D, am I hallucinating on medication, am I still asleep…any one of these rationalizations were what kept me from totally losing it…at least for a day or so.

Two days later, after much pain medication and sleep, I got up to get dressed and go to my “post op” appointment. I took off my shirt, the granny style bra and one of the wraps around my chest and there to my complete dismay were the biggest boobs I had ever seen. Well, the tears flowed and didn’t stop until weeks later when this whole mess was beginning to come to a close. I searched my paper work, tears filling my eyes for some explanation of this ridiculous sight that was my body. What I found shocked me even more. I discovered that the implants I received were not 400cc like the DD nurse said (which was already offensive) but in fact they were 465cc.

I picked up the phone, dialed, and yelled. I complained, cried, fought, argued, pleaded that I had been misshapen by this doctor, that I looked ridiculous. They had to fix their mistake. They said, calm down, come in and let us take a look. Well, I hauled my new porn star body out of the house, into my car and off to the office. I cried some more, argued some more and assured them I would have never agreed to an implant of that size. Never. Even if they had told me that I HAD to have that size, I wouldn’t have done the operation. I told them if they didn’t fix it, I would sue. They scheduled the appointment. The corrective surgery would be free of charge. Holy Crap. They made a mistake. These people charge you for everything. If this was not their mistake, they would not pay for it – this was unbelievable. Was this really happening?

As painful as surgery is and as painful as the next surgery to fix it would be, the worst part about this ordeal was the time in between. Every time I passed a mirror, I fell apart. I cried for hours. I cried to my husband as I showed him my ridiculous figure, I cried quietly as I put my babies to sleep, and then I cried myself to sleep. I was beyond frustrated and angry. Furthermore, because of my extensive physical pain and emotional depression I had to have someone come and help me with the children. I hate that. They made me wait a week and a half to fix their mistake.

My children were suffering. My parents and my husband were suffering. I was suffering.

I have spoken so far of the facts as they occurred in this situation as well as the emotional and physical damage this situation has caused me and my family. The original surgery and recovery time was carefully planned as my mom and my husband had to take off work to care for me and my small children. What we did not plan for was the week that followed the surgery when I was so mortified at what happened to my body that I could not make it through one day without crying for hours. I look back now and feel I should have been stronger, but I wasn’t. Everyone in my family has felt my anguish and despair as I tried to get through each painful day only to be looking forward to yet another surgery and recovery. In addition, my intent with this surgery was to receive and implant so small (250cc) that even my friends would not see the difference. In reality, everyone I know is now aware of the situation because of the depression it caused in me.

Here we go, second surgery day. And the big bonus: This procedure is done under local anesthesia. Ugh. The nurses, both DD and another one were sympatric to me, lamenting that I have to do it all over again. The incisions are numbed locally and I am left awake through the whole process. Which is a little like having an epidural during childbirth. While the acute pain may be relieved, the pressure and intensity remains. I was on the same table as before and had my arms strapped down. The doctor came in as they finished prepping me. The procedure was a nightmare. Again, the only thing I can relate it to is actually giving birth to giant water balloons out of each breast through open wounds. Then I felt the pulling and pushing of the sutures. And then it’s done. Two hours later, the local anesthesia wears off and the pain is so intense it is difficult to breath, impossible to move. OMG.

Two days, three days, four days, etc. after the second surgery I still have to burden my mom, my dad, and my husband and take them away from their own work to care for me and my children, AGAIN, when I should be healed enough to handle my own life. I can’t wear a bra. My chest is so sore…I am still in pain just to sleep, walk around, lie down and get up, bend over. This is worse that the initial surgery. Plus, the extra bonus of the second surgery is that my incisions are so angry they begin to itch, A LOT. I use ice, A LOT.

In addition to the sheer negligence displayed by the doctor and her office, which is in itself horrifying as a possibility there is the thick irony in my situation. All I wanted was a quiet, unnoticed, undetected, UN discussed, minor improvement to my figure. What I got was a physically painful and emotional disturbing stroll down “plastic surgery gone wrong” lane that is now almost public knowledge in my large circle of friends as a “what not to do”. What a joke. I raked myself over the coals for not being louder, for not saying what I wanted just one more time, for trusting those in positions of expertise. They screwed up, but I will be damn sure never to fall through another crack again.

Boobies or no boobies, scream if you have to.