"Breast Implants Look Better on Skinny Women"
My breast surgeon was suuuuper cool. Until he wasn't.
He’s this young Indian guy. Probably about 5’5”. He probably knows the lyrics to a few Lizzo and a few Migos songs too. And I'm sure he definitely is a fan of the Dave Matthews Band. He’s probably never heard black people’s end of the night song - “Before I let go”. But I’m sure he knows the white version of it - “Don’t stop believin” by Journey. That's cool too. He probably likes Jameson and probably pounds Bud Light while watching football.
We are homies in my head. We could DEF hang and send each other stupid meme’s on Instagram. But we can't be friends because he's my doctor and he's seen me in my underwear way too many times. So we’ll just remain friends in my head and keep it at that.
I let my boobs heal from the reconstructive surgery and go in for a follow up so he can get a good look at these hamburger patties on my chest. It's been about 4 or 5 weeks. I remember my friend telling me to ask for the “teardrop” shaped boobs. Yeah, that doesn't exist for breast cancer patients. There isn't a nipple to make it a teardrop, so there's that. These bad boys just need two buns and some ketchup. Ain’t no teardrops going on here except for the ones coming from my eyes.
My friend that just recently got her boob job has assured me that I need not worry.
“Jen I promise that you just need more time. They’re going to look great.”
I go in to my first follow up appointment with my surgeon. My husband is with me.
My surgeon comes in and looks at these burger patties. These patties are not appetizing to me or anyone.
My surgeon walks in and asks me to spread my arms.
There I am standing in my underwear again with my husband and my surgeon both looking at me. I feel like one of those people in those weight loss commercials where they have their arms spread while the camera circles around them.
Well, this is awkward.
“They look great!” he exclaims.
I stare at him wondering if he's looking at the same boobs I've been looking at. He stands there smiling like a proud artist, amazed by his work.
“They really are healing nicely. And they will round out really nicely with time. Give it a few more weeks.”
This man is so proud I can't even bring myself to whine about hating these fugly things. So I just suck in my bitchin’ and moanin’ and save it for another day.
I give it a few more weeks to will myself to love them. But, Love? Nah, I don’t love them...AT ALL. They are sitting damn near in my throat though. I guess that’s nice. Move over Dolly Parton.
I imagined having these soft, squishy breasts that were nice and perfectly rounded like baseballs. Instead they look like footballs. Ugh.
I let about a month pass to see if a miracle happens. Nope. I’m still not a fan of these titties, so I schedule another follow-up appointment. My breasties and one of my nurse friends that I’ve known for at least a decade have assured me that, asking for revisions is common. They push me along like a little kid on the playground afraid to speak up for herself.
My surgeon was just so proud of his work. I don’t want to seem ungrateful. Maybe this IS how they’re supposed to look. Maybe this is as good as they’re going to get. Well, I have to at least voice my concerns.
I go in to meet with my doctor. Excited to see my “friend”, as he has become in my head.
He walks in greeting me warmly,
“Hey Jen! How’s it goin?”
His demeanor is unsure of why I’ve scheduled this visit. He has two young women shadowing him. He asks for my consent to have them in the room. I give him a smile and a nod yes. They are busy looking at the doctor, at me like I’m some science project and back down at their clipboards. They jot down notes. They’ve only been here 60 seconds. What are they writing, I wonder.
“Um...I...I…….I don’t like THEM,” I say glancing down at my breasts hoping not to offend him.
I sit there feeling sad and awkward with one of those paper gowns that opens in the front. I’ve pulled the gown together tightly, afraid to show what’s underneath.
“Ok, stand up and remove the gown” he directs me with disappointment in his voice.
Damnit. I’ve just shit on his artwork, AGAIN.
I move slowly from the table with the paper crinkling loudly as I stand up. I stand there in just my underwear with the gown hanging loosely from my shoulders like a pashmina.
The 3 of them stand there looking at me.
“Ok, remove the gown please.”
I let the gown fall down to around my elbows. I’m nervous and ready to say, “Nevermind!” It’s already nerve-wracking having my male doc looking at them, now I’ve got two strangers in the room eye-balling me like I’m some science experiment.
“Please take the gown off,” he instructs me again.
Finally, I remove the gown and hold it in my hand.
They look me up and down trying to see why I am dissatisfied.
“So what don’t you like?” he asks.
He asks me to turn and raise my arms and then put them back down at my sides and then turn again so that he can see me from all different angles.
“Well, I thought they would be rounder.” I say pulling the side boob tightly at each side to show how I want them to look.
“Well, Jennifer they look better now than before you started.”
I feel like a sword just went into my chest.
“Honestly, Breast implants just look better on skinny women.”
I stand there silently in disbelief.
“What’s your weight and height?”
I spew out his answers, meekly. He does some calculations.
“You are actually medically considered, morbidly obese. This has nothing to do with my work. You need to lose weight to see your desired results. There is a fat clinic next door that you can go to. There are many different plans to help you find the results you want to see.”
That sword in my chest was just taken out, shoved back in and twisted to ensure that I felt pain. I stand there embarrassed. The other women stand there quietly, barely able to look me in the eye.
I want to magically put on my clothes like Superman in a phone booth and run out of the door and never come back again. I suck back my tears because right now at this moment want to punch him in his face and ugly cry.
Perhaps what he is saying is right. I’m sure diet and exercise could help. Duh. But in that moment, none of that calculates in my head. It’s months of anger and shock of EVERYTHING that I have been faced with. So no, right now I’m not thinking about a damn diet and upper body exercise. After ALL that I’ve been through these are the words that you use to help me “feel better”? ?? No, you’re just trying to help YOURSELF feel better. I am devastated. Was there no better way for him to phrase this?!
I say nothing. I am in disbelief. How could he? How DARE he. I just fought for my fucking LIFE. I’ve had my life transformed in the blink of an eye and you want to tell me I’m fat and that I need to go run a few laps?
The 3 amigos exit the room.
I put on my clothes and walk to my car. The second the door shuts, I burst into tears. I have never felt so disrespected in my life.
Whatever happened to, If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all? Better yet, where the fuck was his bedside manner?
Part 2 next week.