It’s true… I did get a boob job.

 

It’s sort of a crazy thing to admit, but I am. I’m sure some of you are like good for you girl, that’s everyone’s dream, post baby and some of you are like you’re an embarrassment to feminists everywhere!! But I did it, and since I always try and be honest about the things I go through in my life I’m telling you about it now.

 

I guess, let’s start with why…

 

Hmmm… How do I explain this delicately? When I got pregnant the first time I had lovely little B-cups. I loved them and they loved me back. After the baby was born, the milk came in and those lovely B’s became E-cups. No, that’s not a typo, that’s a cup size, E… as in Elephant… as in Enormous… as in YOWZA!

 

So the twins went from little to big and since I had two more children, they did it two more times! Then, after Ford was born, I started exercising more and eating better and I maintained a smaller weight and what was already a little bit of a sad state became… nothing. I don’t mean that they were worn out… I don’t mean that they looked tired… I mean that there was nothing there, no filler, no cushion… the cup in this case, was definitely half empty.

 

So where as before I’d never really thought about my breasts much, now I noticed them all the time.

 

I hated to wear a bathing suit, I hated to go without a bra… or even worse, topless. Mostly, I hated how focused I was on something so trivial.

 

Dave never said anything, he approached them just like he always had… with reverence and the unfettered joy of a straight man seeing boobs– but my issues got worse. Honestly, I’m not one to wallow for long… I’m a fixer. And while I can’t fix everything, this was something I definitely could do something about. So I decided, I was going to have them lifted back up.

 

The first step was finding a doctor. I did a lot of research because I really wanted a female surgeon. I mean, I was insecure about my husband seeing my girls, you think I was about to let another man (even a doctor) take a gander? No way! I suppose, there was also this part of me (sorry men) who worried that a male doctor would push me to do something bigger when all I wanted were those cute little B-cups back.

 

So I found my doctor, who is awesome and who also has kids so she totally got what I was looking for. I made Dave go with me to the appointment, and I asked a million questions, which mostly had to do with whether or not I’d die on the table like the mom from Clueless, and whether or not I’d lose sensitivity (because that might almost be as bad as death). They took some pictures for my chart… which let me tell you, is darn miserable. Nobody needs to see their sad little boobs through the lens of an HD camera and some intense lighting.

 

Next, I tried on implants which means you wear a bigger bra and put in different sizes to get an idea of what the end result might be. I kept going back to the implants that were the smallest… literally, the smallest they make on the planet. But even though I liked the small ones, a little part of me wondered, should I try and go a bit bigger? Isn’t that what a lot of women do? But every time I put in the bigger size (even just slightly bigger) I felt uncomfortable. I didn’t want to be someone new… I just wanted to feel like my old self. I called Dave into the room to ask his thoughts on the matter.

 

“What do you think?” I asked “Should I go a little bigger?”

 

His response was instant… “I have no opinion whatsoever. You’re beautiful no matter what you do. Just choose something that makes you feel good about yourself.”

 

It’s amazing that after 11 years together he can still say something that makes me fall in love with him all over again.

 

So I chose the smallest option and we scheduled the appointment for surgery.

 

I was so excited, but as the days got closer and closer I started to freak out. Not about whether or not to do it, but about whether or not I’d live. I have three beautiful children and surgery is scary and what if something happened to me because of my own vanity? Can you imagine what a horrible legacy I’d leave behind? As the day approached my anxiety got worse and worse.

 

On the Monday before my appointment (two days to go) I cried most of the day. I’ve never had a reaction like that in my life! On Tuesday morning I finally had to email the doctor’s office because I was so upset. One of their nurses called and held my hand via cell phone. She has three kids too, she’d had the same kind of surgery, it was all going to be ok. She made me feel so much better and then she called in an order for Xanax. I’d never taken anything like that, but I can tell you without question, I wouldn’t have made it to the OR that morning without one.

 

The night before I drifted in the chemical-induced calm while I chatted on the phone with my best friend for an hour. I made her promise that, in the case of my untimely demise, she would help perpetuate the myth for my children that I’d died in a Doctor’s Without Borders mission… never mind that I’m not a doctor, in this made up past I was much more valiant than I actually am. Thank God for my friends and my husband who just nodded along with the crazy lady and agreed to whatever I asked.

 

After I got off the phone with her I found a voicemail from an unknown number. It was from the anesthesiologist for my surgery, Dr. So-and-So.

 

He was like “Hey Rachel, it’s Dr. So-and-So, but you can call me Aiden. I’ll be your anesthesiologist tomorrow so please call me if you have any questions. I’ll be on cell until 10:30”

 

Aiden? On cell until 10:30? PM?!?

 

And I knew… I just KNEW that doctor Aiden was going to be some hot LA dreamboat… and he was going to see my boobs! I’d arranged for a female surgeon but I’d never explained the whys to her, and because I didn’t anticipate the other people in on the surgery I’d now go through one with a man in the room. I prayed fervently that Dr. So-and-So was overweight, or near sighted, or had some terrible facial deformity at the very least.

 

Fast forward to the morning of the surgery. I hug the kids goodbye (I’d told them I was going on a business trip) and again, thank God for Xanax, because I was a mess. Dave drove me over and they came to get me from the waiting room. I hugged him goodbye, but as soon as I saw all the pre-op stuff in the room they took me to I started freaking out and Dave had to come sit with me. The nurse asked me questions and I put on a gown and then… Doctor Aiden walked in… in scrubs.

 

Seriously, you guys… why me? Of course he was blonde and tan and like, 12 years old and when I asked how he was doing (because even when I’m nervous, I’m polite) he was like “I’m doing great, I’ve already been surfing this morning… so you know, great day already!” And I’m thinking OF COURSE YOU’RE A SURFER! And Dear God, now would be a really great time to send the rapture before this surfing doctor sees me topless!

 

My surgeon came in… drew all over my chest with a Sharpie (luckily, no boys allowed to witness soul sucking moment) and then they led me to the OR. The room sort of freaked me out because it looked like every Grey’s Anatomy episode you’ve ever seen and, you know, nothing good happens in those rooms! I was chattering nervously and then the model/doctor put an IV in my arm and (though I didn’t realize it at the time) some pretty good drugs. I started telling the assembled medical personnel that no anesthesiologist should look like this guy… or go surfing. He was supposed to be bald and 60+ years old and definitely not tan. The last thing I remember saying while slipping off into oblivion was please Dr. Aiden, whatever you do, don’t look at my destroyed boobs!

 

Not. Even. Kidding.

 

And then I woke up and… I Lived! I was so excited to be alive that I didn’t even mind that it felt like my chest had gone 12 rounds with a prize fighter.

 

 

Recovery? Well it was both harder and easier than I thought it would be. Easier because I’d imagine the pain would be much worse than it was. The surgery was on a Wednesday and I was back at work on Monday morning.  I say it was harder too since you’re basically unable to use your arms because your pec muscles are so sore. Also there are stitches and bandages and some drains that nearly made me pass out the first time I saw them… seriously, the picture below is from about 3 seconds after my knees buckled when I had to change my own bandages.

 

 

So that was all 4 weeks ago… and while I still have some aches and pains (most likely because with 3 kids and a company to run I couldn’t exactly take it easy like they’d suggested) I absolutely think it was worth it. Will you think so too? Maybe, maybe not. I understand that not everyone will agree with my choices but that’s ok.

 

I’m writing about my experience anyway, knowing it might be something you disagree with because that’s what I do. I write about my life. In fact, as I sit here typing it up Dave is next to me and he keeps asking “are you sure you really want to tell people about this?” The truth is I wrote it for those of you who’ve had similar experiences and can relate. Or for those of you who’ve thought about what it might be like, and are looking for more info. Or even for those of you who needed to laugh today, and my luck with anesthesiologists is as good a reason as any.

 

The bottom line is, I’ve always been honest about my life here on this blog because I hope it gives you the courage to be honest about yours. So there it is, the absolute truth and honestly… my boobs look great! 😉