I’ve been trying to think of something to write. And a lot of my memories are more… snippets if you will. A lot of the crazy things that happen to my family are more “you had to be there”, because they just don’t translate into type.

And some of the strange things that have happened to me, I’m just not at liberty to share. C’est la vie.

–

Today was my last physical therapy session for my left arm. I have three lovely stitches popping, the kind that are supposed to dissolve and they’re quite the painful little buggers. The asisstant is not in at the doctor’s office (see, the PT clinic and my doctor are right next to each other, adjoined by a bridge over a small gully with a creek) so I can’t have them removed til Tuesday at the earliest.

This triggered a memory, which is actually more of a really long story I’ve retold several times in my life. Mainly because if you saw me today, you’d never ever know unless I told you.

–

As a child, I was the chubby kid. It comes from my father’s side, really. That and being a truly picky eater. But something you cannot predetermine is what can be controlled by exercise and what is genetics.

You know the girl. The one growing up that is already far beyond endowed then any other girl in the class, let alone the school.

Yup, that was me.

Early on in life, probably in elementary school, I heard there was a surgical procedure that could reduce the size of these things (I wasn’t fond of using the actual term at the time) and would instantly make my life a lot less hellish. I figure I was around 8 when I heard about it.

But I said nothing. I didn’t even know how to broach that subject with my mother. I mean really, how do you say, “Please take me to some doctor and have these huge pieces of flesh cut down!”

I have a condition known as costochondritis, which amounts to have a form of arthritis in the intercostal tissues that connect your ribs. As far as I can figure, it hit me full-force around 7 (that’s another story) and really flares up in times of stress. There’s no true way to understand the amount of pain unless you physically experience it. Last Christmas, for example, I thought I was having one long heart attack. (Nope, just a costochondritis attack.)

Between the ages of 14-16, these got increasinly worse. By this time, I was measured as a 44DD. Yep, a 44DD bra at the age of 14. Much to my misery, believe me.

Shortly before I turned 16, the pain of these attacks, combined with the weight on the front of my chest, was turning towards back problems. I was very much hunching over to hide myself; I would get very self-conscious about these damn weights hanging from me. Unbound by a bra, they practically went to my knees.

It certainly wasn’t my fault I was cursed with these genetics, but to feel utter disgust at your own body is a rough thing to endure.

At the doctor’s office, discussing my worsening back pain, my doctor grew quiet. “You know, there is a procedure called a ‘breast reduction’. Have you ever considered that?”

I about fell off the examine table. I nearly screamed “DO IT! DO IT NOW!” but I was a little more restrained. After years of bottling up my desire to have said procedure done, it all came pouring out of me. I think I shocked the doctor and my mother on how much I already knew.

–

The first doctor mom and I checked into was a woman who practiced on the East side of Portland. Her office looked like it had literally been lifted out of Beverly Hills and set into the some-what worn hosptial building. We were ushered into a room and I was told to strip the top half of me and pictures would be taken.

Cue confusion.

Pictures were taken, photos of previous paitients were shown, very little discussion about repercussions or what would actually be done was made. It was like she had already operated on me and was just waiting for the insurance company to cut the check.

We were shown the door, looking dazed and confused at what had just happened.

A few days later, the insurance company called the house. They were confused as to why a doctor had just filed a claim, saying I was to immediately have this procedure, stood 5′6, and was age 21.

At the time I had barely turned 16, and I stand around 5′3, in my heeled boots.

The woman doctor had attempted to lie to my insurance to get them to pay her. God only knows what kind of botched job she would have done on me. Mom immediately informed them it was all lies and we put everything on hold.

I was miserable. My dream seemed snatched away.

–

School ended for the summer. We had a funeral to attend, a woman who had been like an adoptive grandmother to me. After the service we were talking to her daughter. Somehow my problem came up.

“Oh,” she said, grinning. “You want to see Dr. Busby. He did my procedure and I’m sure he could help you. They call him ‘no-scars’.”

Hope renewed, we made an appointment. I believe it was in June. We were welcomed in to a nice, warm office. No minimalist and coldness like the other office. Shown to a room, the doctor came in and greeted us.

He discussed the procedure, why women have it done, the risks and benefits. He showed me several albums of pictures, before and after of his patients. I wanted to cry. I wanted this done tomorrow!

Because I was only 16, I might be told I had to wait. Major surgery on a body still growing is risky. Seeing how miserable I was, how huge I was, how my health problems had started to mount, Dr. Busby said he was willing to operate.

I was taken in and shown a video about the prodecure, the before and after, and what risks there could be. Due to the size I was, and depending on how much they would take away, I wouldn’t ever be able to breastfeed.

I told them I didn’t care. I wanted to be healthy, and happy. If I ever did decide to have kids, that was a really long way off and I could deal with the consequences.

I think we went back for one more visit before the deal was made. In July I would get my wish.

–

In the nearly ten years since this was done, and considering I didn’t have a journal at the time, I’ve written and told this story several times. Some of the details are now hazy.

I remember we had to be there at 7am. We’d had dinner at Red Lobster with my godfather and his wife the night before. No food allowed after midnight. I’m pretty sure I slept. I wasn’t scared at all.

At the hosptial they checked me in and made me down a tiny antacid pill. A nurse attempted twice to put an IV in my arm, but ended up putting it in the back of my right hand. The nurse knew a kid I went to high school with. No one at school except my best friend knew how I was spending my summer vacation.

I sat around watching the funeral of a Portland police officer on the TV in the ward. Eventually the doctor came in and drew all over my breasts in green pen where he would make incisions, what would be removed, and everything else he would do.

That was a little odd.

I waited around some more. Finally it was time.

There’s something unnerving about laying in a bed and being wheeled down long, gleaming hallways with huge florescent lights overhead that blind you. We reached the OR and I had to scoot over to the table. Most undignified in a hospitial gown.

Someone asked me if I’d ever been to Disneyland. I don’t even know how we got started on that. I was talking about it, they put the mask over my face, I breathed in, I was out…

–

My own groans awakened me in the recovery ward. I kept putting my right arm above my head, sound asleep, and setting off the moniter that was watching my blood pressure. A nurse kept coming over and putting my arm down, but I kept doing it.

Some guy in the next bed over, seperated by a curtain, was talking on and on about a motorcycle. I kept drifting in and out. I could tell there was something extremely tight wrapped around my chest but I didn’t care.

Eventually I was awake enough to be moved to the room I would spend the night in. It was policy to spend the night. I didn’t want to but I couldn’t argue. An orderly barely 18, male and cute, pushed my bed up to my room.

That was embarassing. I looked like hell and just had my boobs done. Lord.

For the next four hours, any time I tried to move I puked. They made me get up to use the bathroom, which is procedure, and I puked.

You do not understand that your center of gravity changes drastically when you have this surgery. My head was spinning and I couldn’t balance for love nor money. (I have fantastic balance and this frustrated the hell out of me to no end. Also, I hate throwing up.)

Finally I lasped into sleep and the puking stopped. Mom settled in to watch the five channels on the TV and I dozed on and off. Every hour on the hour a nurse would appear and bug me, asking about pain and checking me over.

That night was one of the worst nights in my life. I wanted sleep but they were just doing their job, checking to make sure I wasn’t going to explode or fall apart.

My departure the next day was held up. Dr. Busby was late to remove the bindings and bandages, the drains that were to collect the blood and fluids. I was impaitent. For the first time in my 16 years I could cross my arms over my chest. Granted it was akward, being as I had mummy-like bandages around my chest, but I could do it.

Don’t ever take that simple act for granted again.

Eventually he arrived. One of my drains had basically wiggled its way loose during the night. Thankfully those were hospital sheets. He checked everything, all the sutures and stitches and signed the release papers.

If they would have let me I would have run out of there, I was so hyper and excited to finally be rid of my source of pain and self-consciousness. But they don’t. I had to be rolled out in a wheel chair.

But I was free.

–

It took nearly a year before the swelling subsided. For a while I thought he had just stappled rocks onto my chest because that’s how hard they were.

During the healing, one of the stitches that was supposed to dissolve popped through. It had to be pulled, which was a simple visit to the doctor, but that damn thing was painful. The stitches in my elbow reminded me.

In case you were wondering, he cut roughly 500 grams and a little more of tissue. From both. That’s over a pound of flesh from each. (Where’s Shylock?) It is amazing the difference two pounds make.

At that time I went from a 44DD to a 42B. I was the youngest patient he had ever performed the procedure on. And he really was ‘no-scars’; they’re there but you would have to know where to look. I’ve had no complications, a full recovery, and they’re basically the same. I’m probably a C now, but still. A C comapred to a DD?

I’d never go back.