This is perhaps the most amusing part of the whole process of having plastic surgery. Amusing to read about, maybe not so much to experience.
I showed up at my doctor’s office for my initial consultation. Planned for this visit was for my doctor to see my breasts, give her recommendations for surgery and then I would also receive a quote for services.
I was greeted right away by one of the nurses on staff and then taken to an exam room. I was asked to put on a gown and wait for pictures to be taken. WHA? After the nurse left the room I kept hearing an echoing sentence in my head. You know, in that warped slow motion way….”Piiiiiiictuuuuurrrres toooooo beeeeee taaaaaaakeeeeen.” They are going to take pictures of me and those things I hate so much. I tried as best I could to compose myself. No big deal, they are just pictures, blah blah blah. The staff is so nonchalant about it all too. They don’t understand one of my biggest life rules. The one next to “though shalt not kill”. NEVER LET ANYONE TAKE A PICTURE OF YOU NAKED. This rule has served me well in life and in a time span of about 5 minutes, in a place I’ve never set foot in before, I’m shooting it all to hell.
Remember, I’ve wanted new boobs for a long time and this was the test of worthiness. To stand in front of oh, three lights on tripods and a nurse with a pretty intimidating camera.
Thoughts going through my mind at this moment:
How small is the frame?
Is my face in the shot?
Should I smile?
Should I have good posture or bad posture?
Maybe I should frown?
Yes! Frown! All “Before” shots are sad and frowny.
Ugh, I forgot to shave.
At least my underwear is pretty.
4 bright flashes of light later I’m back in the exam room waiting for the doctor.
My doctor shows up and she is as pretty as her “about” picture on her website. Much tinier than I expected though. She is warm and friendly and really seems to know her stuff. She calls my boobs “the girls”. This made me happy because I couldn’t survive a long conversation in which I have to call my boobs my “breasts”. In fact, before going to this appointment I coached myself to use the word “breasts” just in case. I didn’t want to show up and trivialize my doctors work with slang.
After our “hellos” we started to discuss what I wanted and what my doctor could do for me. This is when it starts to happen. The point when your boobs are no longer a part of you. They are a problem to fix. A remodeling project of sorts. They are ready to be poked and prodded. Drawn on, analyzed, the works. I told her I wanted a solid C cup, but if she went smaller, I’d be more than happy with that. She said that it’s not an exact science but she would keep that in mind and that she expected I’d make a great candidate for the surgery.
I had a few hurdles I needed to jump first. I had to have my infertility doctor explain that I’m not a diabetic even though I’ve been prescribed diabetic medication (for fertility reasons). I also had to undergo a mammogram. I took care of both of these tasks fairly easily. Maybe a story for another day. Maybe not.
Next was a quote and financing. I’m not sure if that is anything that anyone wants to know about? People get a little itchy when it comes to money, so I may leave that up to you all individually if you want to know, tell me.
At the risk of becoming that chick who keeps posting pictures of her boobs after surgery, here is a recent “after” picture with a “before” first, for comparison.
Look! My boobs are almost as big as my daughter’s head!