If you haven’t read part 1 of ‘why I got a boob job’, go back and read it first.
Part of the initial paperwork I filled out online (prior to the consultation) required imagery of my ‘chest area’. The pictures were used to predetermine if I was a suitable candidate; rather than waste mine and the surgeons time (and I suppose the $200 fee). Since I was at work, I did whatever sane person at their place of employment would do. I grabbed a work pal to come and take the pics. There were no questions, no reluctance – what a pal. We all need a work wife like that. She took me into the bathroom and snapped some INCREDIBLY unflattering pics of my naked body that I would be mortified of, should they see the light of day.
Turns out, I was ‘suitable candidate’ so I took myself off to the initial appointment a few weeks later.
What happens in the consultation?
It’s actually incredibly anti-climatic. The waiting room was this shiny and sparkly place in the Eastern Suburbs of Sydney, with a bunch of over-inflated receptionists behind the front desk. They weren’t exactly selling the ‘natural’ look if that’s what you wanted.
My surgeon was a short man, who barely came up to my nipples. It made it super awkward when I had to take my clothes off and show him what he was dealing with. He asked what I wanted, if I understood the risks, took me through how it worked and how many he generally did. I was shocked to find out that on a ‘surgery’ day, it was normal to perform 14 breast augmentation procedures. They were a quick 40-minute job per person for him at most.
He then got out his little tape measure just like in the movies and made marks on my chest to show me where he would cut and how they would sit. I also had to put fake boobs on so I could choose what size I wanted. I thought I knew what I wanted but he quickly talked me out of it.
A bit of advice…
One of the biggest tips I could give someone is to take your surgeons advice on size. Most people will go in and say ‘I want to be a full C-cup’ (as an example) but that’s actually not how implants work. You choose the shape (round, teardrop etc), the profile (where it sits on your chest) and amount of CCs (which is the amount of silicone in each implant). I already knew this from all the research I’d done but he actually laughed when I told him I wanted 330 CC sized implants. He explained that girls I had seen who had that size implant had a much smaller frame than I did. On me, those implants would sit apart with a bony area in between, rather than the ‘full’ cleavage I desired. My boobs were also lopsided (I didn’t even realise), so we agreed on 520 in my right boob and 560 in my left. 520 and 560 sound HUGE compared to the 330 I initially asked for but it suited my curvier frame and the breast pockets I already had.
After my consultation, I spoke with a nurse who took me through more details and made sure I was comfortable with my decision. She also got me to try and break an implant. It sounds weird but it’s actually something many people worry about, ‘popping’ or ‘breaking’ them. I was told to be as rough as possible with one, to show how durable they are.
HOW DID I PAY FOR MY BOOB JOB?
Stupidly, I got a loan. I know, I know. It was an absolutely imbecilic move. I’d made my decision to get them and was USELESS at saving (not that I’m much better now TBH) and I was on a shitty salary. However, I knew I could pay the repayments easily. My bank approved the loan within a day and I paid the deposit without even speaking to my surgeon first. The initial appointment was in May and I’d already booked the surgery for July that same year.
DO NOT DO WHAT I DID. Read The Barefoot Investor or just learn to budget, then SAVE the money. I don’t even want to know how much extra I would have spent on interest and bank fees but it’s sure as shit not something I would do again.
WHO DID I TELL?
Full disclosure, I’m pretty open. I told my friends, my housemates, my colleagues, my mum. The only people I was resolute in not know were my dad and my nanny. My dad found out because he read an email my mum had sent saying ‘good luck with your boobs’. But, to this day, I’ve successfully kept the secret from my nanny!
THE DAY PRIOR.
It was a Monday, my surgery was on Tuesday. I worked in publishing for beauty websites so our entire floor was women. EVERYONE knew what I was doing and were super supportive and excited for me. Or so I thought. Our GM at the time had her office downstairs and when I said ‘see you next week’ and she asked me where I was going, I told her and her mouth dropped open with horror. I then suffered through a 10-minute long rant about how disappointed and disgusted she was, how I was everything that’s wrong with women and why feminism is failing.
I quietly went home and burst into tears.
Working with her and all these other strong women had encouraged my own discovery of feminism. I was proudly independent of men for the first time in my life. So I stood naked in front of the mirror with tears running down my cheeks and stared at my breasts that were perfectly lovely. I felt immense sadness for them. Although they had been with me through puberty, a man seeing me naked for the first time, and were good enough for the best sex of my life – they were no longer good enough for my future. I’d felt like I was letting my body, which had done so much for me, down. I cried for teenage Kelly, who didn’t feel good enough or hot enough, and adult Kelly who spoke strongly about feminism and body shaming, yet, was about to completely change her appearance.
Later, I messaged my friend (the same pal who’d taken those initial pics) and told her how I was feeling. I needed her to calm me down. Often, I wish I still had that message (alas, my track record with phones is dismal). It gave me the hope I deserved and the laugh that I needed. What she wrote had a perfect touch of humour about my ‘sad boobies’ and strength ‘you’re doing this for you’. And I was. There was absolutely no one else I was doing this for. I was doing this for 11-year-old Kelly, 15-year-old Kelly, 22-year-old Kelly and all the Kellys in between. If doing something just for yourself isn’t feminism, I don’t know what is.
THE DAY OF THE SURGERY.
I was SO nervous! I woke up with those jittery butterflies you get that are a little bit stress, little bit anxiety and all nerves. I’m pretty sure I did a nervous poo.
My sis fetched me off and dropped me off at the clinic at 8:30am. I think we were both a bit surprised about the quickness of the process. We got no time together, they admitted me, told her to come back at 11ish and sent her off.
I was in a private waiting room for only about 30 mins all up – filling in paperwork, putting on my hospital gown, watching the telly etc. The nurse came in to hook me up to an IV. However, because of my aversion to needles, she decided to wait until I was in the operating theatre. My surgeon and nurse came in for literally 1 minute, made sure I was ok and made a few marks on my chest with a pen. I was wheeled off to theatre, because it was so cold they couldn’t get a vein with me awake. In the end, they just gave me gas and off I went. That’s the last thing I remember.
The next thing I remember, I was being dressed by a nurse who’d shoved a lollypop in my mouth. I have absolutely no idea why. This was the ‘recovery’ area of the clinic. I was still hooked up to an IV, delivering fluids, antibiotics and pain fluids. I was in a LOT of pain and it felt like someone very fat was sitting on my chest.
To be continued…