How do I begin to recount the events of the last year and a half of my life? How do I pique interest in you, the reader? I peeked at a thesaurus for words that would accurately convey my defeat and simultaneously make me sound smart.
Shitstorm. Bear fight in a filthy McDonalds bathroom stall. Repugnant shit goblin. Fuckfuckingfuckityfuck. Miley Cyrus meltdown.
Yeah, there was one day specifically that I listened to Miley Cyrus for 3 whole hours. I can’t say that I came out the other side of that a better person or that I respect her as an artist, but yeah, I listened to her. So I guess you could say I’m accepting. I embrace all kinds. I’m kind of a saint. Like Mother Teresa but with better tits.
Last year I got my boobs done. When I say I got them done, I don’t mean I got them ‘porn star done’. I mean I got them tastefully done. You know, like ‘Hey, I can stand to look at myself in a mirror & I don’t mind if you look at them now, too’ kind of done.
If someone had told me the damage having a child and losing a shit ton of weight would have on my tits I would have stayed fat and adopted more cats. For real, if you’re 20-something and reading this, start wrapping the girls up as tight as you can. Hoist them up to your ears if you can. Keep them there for as long as you can, too. Gravity is an evil foe. Stretch marks are for fucking life and don’t let any commercial selling you a miracle cream tell you any differently! Eventually your nipples will want to curl up under your boobs like they’re trying to keep themselves warm in the fold of you tit. It’s bullshit.
Making the decision to get implants was tough. Just kidding, it was really easy. My boobs were so sad. As a runner you tend to lean out pretty quickly. Your boobs are always the first thing to go, kinda like morals or ethics in the political arena. Like the lone straggler at a party that’s been over for hours dancing in the corner by themselves, your ass hangs on for eternity. Your ass is defiant. Your ass is the dj that refuses to update their playlist, still playing all the hits from Journey and Creedence. My ass and boobs match now; the force is in balance.
Fun fact: infections, while not common, do happen during/after breast augmentation. Enter repugnant shit goblin.
I’ll spare you some of the details. I’ll spare you some of the details! I’ll spare you some of the details? I just wanted to see how that felt saying that in different ways. I don’t really plan to spare you from shit. Strap in kids, it’s about to get graphic.
It has taken me quite some time to decide if I really wanted to share this experience. Having a procedure like this is quite personal. One may face criticism or ridicule. Do I want to subject myself to that? Then, of course, there is the fact that I developed an infection which I planned to share. How do I share that without making people disgusted? Or afraid? Then I realized: what the fuck do I care? This is about me being able to write. To digest. Plus, if anyone is going to be able to take this experience and make it funny, it’s going to be me. There are so many other reasons for people to judge me. If this is the one that changes your mind about me as human, well then you suck fat turds from hot tailpipes.
I had the implants placed back in August of 2021. It was a sunny day and the birds were chirping the delightful song of their people. The clouds parted as I left the hospital. I wanted one thing when I came out of surgery. Coffee. My husband bought a coffee made entirely of half and half because he said they didn’t have non-fat milk at the kiosk outside the hospital. Apparently low-fat or whole milk didn’t occur to him, he went right to the half and half. It was fucking glorious. Either that or the drugs I was still on were righteous.
After the initial swelling went down, I spent several days staring at the girls in the mirror. Every time I passed the mirror, in fact, I would flash myself. Every opportunity I got I would flash my husband, it was fun for the whole family. Even the cats got to see my tits. Don’t squirm in your seats. Your animals see your naked all the time, you hypocrites. I was filled with a new confidence. I was over the moon. Over the bust? Whatever it was, I was over it. It wouldn’t last though.
Less than 1 month in I began to notice irritation at the incision site. I contacted my doctor. Suture issues, he said. Nothing to worry about. Monitor it and let him know if there were changes. Cool. I was uncomfortable but I thought it would resolve itself. I continued with my routine. Part of my routine was working out, which I had been told was ok. No running, but elliptical was ok. Hindsight being the cunt that it is, maybe not the best idea.
The irritation continued. Redness. A new development. A swollen lymph node. I emailed the doctor. After an in-person consultation we decided on round of antibiotics. He noticed that there was swelling present.
I went through two rounds of antibiotics. No real change.
To my horror one morning I noticed this little blister on the underside of my breast. I honestly don’t remember too much of what I thought at the time. I guess I just thought it would go away. It looked like one of the little blisters you get on your baby toe when your foot rubs on the inside of your shoe. So. Much. WORSE.
That tiny little blister popped revealing a hole. A mother fucking hole in my goddamn boob!!
This is where I want to remind you that it’s really ok to start laughing. Some of you are going to be shocked at what you’ll read. Remember: we’re not there anymore. That’s right, “we” – we are in this shit together ya’ll. Mi titty es su titty. We are all better now.
I woke up on a Saturday morning to check on the status of my breast (see how I tried to sound adult right there?) wanting to see if there was improvement. WHAT THE FUCK?! There is a hole in my boob! You remember morning cartoons and their depictions of holes in the ground where the antagonist falls while chasing after their adversary; that black dot that gets tossed behind someone while running? That shit was in the crease of my boob. Just smaller than the size of pencil eraser, the black hole of eternal uncertainty was staring at me. I felt heart begin to race and my forehead sweat. I immediately called the doctor at 7:30 on a Saturday morning and with a quiver in my voice, said “Oh my god, what the hell is going on?”
Phew…doctor says I’ll live. He says some ‘stuff’ may come out of it. That’s the body’s way of getting rid of the infection. Excuse me? Stuff? I’m all about decluttering your life but when I declutter I’m typically getting rid of shoes and clothes. This didn’t sound like that kind of decluttering.
I. HAD. NO. IDEA
Over the next couple of weeks more blisters would form. More blisters meant more holes. Bitch, I had three holes in my boob! Each hole would expel infectious snot throughout the day at an alarming rate. I always knew I was rotten inside. I walked around with gauze stuffed in my bra. I was like the grandma or aunt you never wanted to admit was related. Always ready to hand you something to wipe your nose with, everything I had already looked used.
I fought harder to save that damn implant than Amy Coney Barrett fought to defend the legitimacy of her nomination. We both failed.
On October 1st, under local anesthesia, I had the implant removed.
Don’t feel too bad. Physically, I felt better. It was the physical aesthetic though that took a toll. I found humor in it too after a while. A long while.
After the explant I had a C cup on one side and an A on the other. A deflated, sad A cup. When you’re older your skin doesn’t quite bounce back the same as when you’re young. The elasticity just says, “fuck it.” I’ll let your imagination do the rest. I choose to not go back there. PTSD is real. I was gifted a prosthetic to wear in my bra for the next 5 months until we could perform revision surgery. And we were going to perform revision surgery. There was no fucking way I was staying like this. I’m not sure how normal it is, but I took to talking to the girls. I would call the left one beautiful and tell the right one it would one day be pretty. When I thought it couldn’t hear me I’d call it the ugly sister. Maybe I need more help than I thought.
When I finally got to the place where I could laugh about the experience, I would yell at family members (and sometimes friends) “don’t make me throw my tit at you!” Silicone is weighty. It makes a statement in a quiet room when you pull it out and throw it down on a table. I still have the prosthetic and plan to DIY it into an art instalment for our home. I’m thinking of framing it in a picture box frame after I inject it with an assortment of food coloring. A tie-dyed boob…in a box. If SNL can do Dick In A Box, I can do Boob In A Box.
I’ve had the revision surgery and things went well, although there was a moment (or 12) where I panicked and became the needy patient who was emailing pictures of her tit to the office with subject lines like: “quick question” or “hey, it’s me again.” In my defense, I talk to my boobs. So, there’s that. Your honor, I breast my defense.
I’m on the mend but I’m still not right. Not sure I’ll ever be normal. Who wants that anyway? I wasn’t even going to write about this when I started. That’s how it goes sometimes. Maybe this means there’s more to come soon. There is so much more garbage that’s happened in the year and half that I’ve been on hiatus. This just happened to be on my chest, so to speak. And I’m not always sure women feel comfortable talking about issues like this. Girl, you got your boobs done. Own it. You are an empowered ass woman. Besides, no one believes you came out the box with those. I bought these and I’m proud AF! I had a difficult time and I don’t mind sharing it. I’m tough as fucking nails and got pretty boobs, come at my world! Wait, that sounded…