I’m writing a long-form piece for The Photographic Journal on the experience of getting breast implants, but I figured I’d share with y’all a little hors d’oeuvre because I am losing my damn mind.
Oh, right. Backstory: I got my tits done last Friday. Surprise! (You’re welcome, family members who read this. Now Thanksgiving won’t be awkward at all.)
While I’ll save the detailed account of the experience, and what led me to take the two-cup plunge, for the article itself, I need to get some of the recovery stress off my chest.
Things that I was prepared for when it came to the surgery:
- Not fitting into clothes as though I were an anime character
- More pain than every Morbid Angel album played at once
- Never sleeping again since I can’t sleep on my back and that’s the only position that will be even marginally tolerable for the foreseeable future
- People groping me
- Not being able to work out
- A perceptible shift in the sight-line of men
- My high-school reunion being awesome
What I wasn’t prepared for was the feeling that I have two newborn kittens strapped to my ribcage.
I guess it’s because my recovery has been so astoundingly easy, my neurotic brain boomerangs into it’s-too-good-to-be-true mode. The first two days, all I needed to cope with pain was Tylenol, and even then, the pain was less than that of most of my tattoos. In my mind this means that something is out of place, or the implants are faulty. Without debilitating pain and the need for fistfuls of Percocet, I must be suffering some complication, capsular contracture, a lurking infection, asymmetry, bleeding, bruising, Tara Reid.
Instead, since everything seems on the up-and-up, I become overprotective, a hovering parent in the most literal sense of the words. Every motion, every sensation, every throb of my pulse must be dislodging them. I’m convinced they’re going to become misshapen, as though they’re made of wet clay or Silly Putty. I spend an exorbitant amount of time looking in my bathroom mirror, questioning whether or not my left is lower than my right, sending countless frightening, unsolicited selfies of my bruised and stitched swollen tits to my friends at work with questions like, “Do they look okay?!” No one but my doctor can reassure me, and my follow-up appointment isn’t until Friday.
In the meantime, I’ll continue to try to figure out how my front-end is going to relate to space and gravity, and use this experience as further evidence that I shouldn’t have children.