Recovery
by Alexandria Brown
University of the Incarnate Word
Alexandria Brown is a junior at UIW who is majoring in Psychology with a minor in English. She enjoys writing short stories and playing the piano in her free time. Family means everything to her, so she spends any time she can with them. She’s also currently planning a wedding, set for after graduating from UIW. Alexandria hopes to go to grad school and become an MFT one day.
They did not warn me. They did not go into detail of what was to come.
#
I stood in front of my doctor, with my chest fully exposed. This was not the way I
thought a man would see my breasts for the first time. I did not picture the first time my breasts
would be groped would be by a physician. I fought back the tears, staring at the wall in front of
me while he starred at me, shocked by the sight. I can remember it feeling like it was an eternity
before he spoke. He just starred, intently looking at the size difference of my breasts. “Well?” I
asked him, anxiously waiting to cover myself up with the thin, pink paper I was given. I can not
remember what he told me, thinking back at the event that took place. All I can remember was
him telling me he could fix my problem with two to three surgeries. I was petrified at the idea of
surgery, at the idea of going under the knife. My mom did most of the talking for I was too
nervous to get a full sentence out. All I could do was let out single word answers, nod, and feel
my hands shake. To make matters worse, the doctor had me stand in front of a dark green
backdrop, and the nurse took pictures of my breasts. They told me it was my ‘before’ photos, and
no one would see them but the staff and me. While I knew that was true, I could not help but cry.
I was embarrassed and scared. I never saw the photos.
#
For years, since I hit puberty, my breasts were different sizes. At first, it was subtle, and
my mom told me it was normal if they were not exactly the same. “They are sisters, not twins,”
she would remind me. However, by the age of fourteen, they were not sisters, but perhaps
cousins. I began to wear baggier t-shirts to disguise the size difference, and I could no longer
wear swimsuits without feeling people could see my deformity. By the time I was sixteen, they
were complete strangers. My right side was a double d, and my left side was a training bra size. I
remember crying every night. I remember wanting to be normal but thinking I would never reach
that dream. I started to hate myself and thought I would never look ‘right’.I had to wear special bras that had inserts in them that were customized for breast cancer patients. I could not wear sun dresses, bikinis, or strapless tops. I constantly tried to fit in, and wear clothes other girls wore to school, but my bra straps were far too wide. So, up until my surgery, I wore t-shirts, dresses with sleeves, and sweaters. I never felt pretty, and I struggled with my self-esteem.
In my junior year of high school, I started to call around cosmetic surgeons’ offices. My
parents had already agreed to allow me to get plastic surgery once I was eighteen. Most doctors
would not operate until then because they believe females go through one last growth spurt and
claimed my breasts would even out. Despite my pleas to the doctors, none would listen to agree
to see me for a consult. Finally, one day, a doctor reached out to me. Dr. K wanted me to come in
for a consult to see what he could do. I remember feeling ecstatic. My mom and I went for the
consult, and we agreed on doing the surgery the summer going into my senior year. I kept it a
secret from my friends, and only certain family members knew what was going on. While I was excited at finally having a chance of fitting in and feeling normal, I also felt ashamed. So, we kept it quiet.
#
On July 14, 2019, I went in for my first breast augmentation. They told me I was
essentially going to have four surgeries done at once. I was going to have my bands in my left
breast cut, going to have my right breast lifted, have my right areola cut off and replaced to
match the left, and have two saline implants inserted. I was sick to my stomach, and I cried the
entire time they were prepping me for surgery. I made enough of a scene that the nurses let my
parents come to the back where I was. We prayed, the nurses gave a sedative, and gathered my
vitals before wheeling me back to the operating room. I remember my heart pounding, fearing I
would die on the table (dramatic I know), and scared the doctor was going to botch the surgery.
Most of all, I was just scared of going under anesthesia. Little did I know that was the least of my
worries.
#
I woke up at home, feeling as though the weight of the world was on my chest. I
screamed, and my mom rushed in. “I think I am dying,” I cried. We went straight to the doctor’s
office, where they told us it was normal to feel like I was having a heart attack. They did not
warn me of the traumatic side effects that would occur after the surgery. They told me it was my
incisions and was nothing to worry about. They prescribed me Valium for my anxiety, and they
sent me home.
The next few weeks were mortifying. I was in constant, unbearable pain. I would find
myself crying while brushing my teeth, thinking I would never feel or look normal. I cried day
and night, not just because I was in pain, but because I did not feel like myself. My mom had to
help do everything for two to three weeks. I could not bathe, eat, or even sit up on my own. I was
on medicine, pain killers, antibiotics, and anti-anxiety pills around the clock. My judgement was
cloudy, emotions were surging, and I felt completely alone. It was a nightmare. To my surprise,
no one came to visit me. My family and I are very close; I do not know if it was because my
mom told them that I would not want them to see me that way, or if my family just did not think to come by, but I hated being stuck at home by myself day after day. It was not until the two-week mark that my cousins, Kaylee and Noelle, came to see me. That was the first time that I felt
somewhat better. I did pay the price, though. I laughed and sat up so much that I was even more
sore the next day. It was worth it, but it only prolonged the recovery time.
#
Looking back at the experience, I still do not think what I went through was right. My
doctor told me I would feel uncomfortable but would be able to drive in two weeks’ time. It took
me over a month to be able to drive. My doctor told me I would be able to stand, walk, and bend
over in six weeks. It felt like knives were stabbing me when I bent over for months. My doctor
told me I was being over emotional, and I should be excited about the outcome. However, I was
swollen, bruised, and could not even breathe comfortably for six months. I could not even sleep
on my side for a year. I felt as though no one knew what I was going through. My doctor failed
to tell me so many side effects, both emotional and physical, would occur. I do not resent him,
for he didn’t know any better. He was following textbook views. He also had the mindset that
most of his patients were mothers and have had gone through the physical and emotional pain of
giving birth. I was seventeen. I was not a mother. I was a scared child. He could not wrap his
head around that I was the youngest patient he had done a breast augmentation on. He was used
to seeing older, more experienced women with higher pain tolerances. I was a first.
#
Recently, I decided that it was impossible for me to be the only one who felt this way. I
have read and heard horror stories of women getting breast implants, only to take them out
because it made them sick, depressed, or because they did not feel like themselves. I refused to
be one of those people because I went years looking and feeling different. However, I could not
ignore the fact I felt the same way to a point. I came to the realization that breast augmentations
are a bigger deal than panned out. We are voluntarily changing our appearance, whether it be
going bigger or smaller. We are willingly being cut open, and having silicone shoved in our
chests. Because of this, we go through an emotional trauma, no matter the reason people get the
surgery. As patients, we alter our appearance, and have to recover. It is different for everyone.
However, one thing is clear – doctors sugar coat the side effects and risks.
#
Breast augmentation patients are two to three times more likely to attempt suicide. They
are also twice as likely to be diagnosed with depression, anxiety, and eating disorders. Overall,
breast augmentation patients have reported elevated mental health problems. Personally, I had to
deal with anxiety, post-surgery depression, and the fact that I just did not feel like me. All the
issues they face, and I faced, are after surgery, after changing themselves and feeling like
someone else is attached to them. It is something that is ignored, swept under the rug, and not
mentioned until after the fact. I would hate to say they do this on purpose so patients won’t back
out, but now after having two breast augmentations (the second surgery was just replacing saline
implants with silicone), I fear that it might be a contributing factor.
#
My experience might not be the same as the next. Everyone’s body is different.
Everyone’s recovery looks different. My first surgery was a complete mess, while my second
one was easier, granted my first surgery was four in one. However, one thing is for sure, breast
augmentation patients not only have to recover physically, but they must also recovery
emotionally.
END.
Work Cited
Von Soest, Tilmann, et al. “Mental Health and Psychosocial Characteristics of Breast
Augmentation Patients.” Journal of Health Psychology, vol. 25, no. 9, 2018, pp. 1270–1278.
Interview with the Author
1. What do you want readers to take away from your writing?
I hope readers will read my writing and know they aren’t alone. Even when their situation seems unrelatable or one in a million, they can always talk to someone and know that it will always get better.
2. Is there an emotion that you feel when you write your pieces?
When I write, I feel like a coming-of-age character. Silly I know, but those emotions of happy, sad, proud, and doubt all play a part when I write. I think it has to do with the thought that it might not work out but then wanting to do it anyway.
3. What is your creative process when you write? Is there a mood you set? A mindset you focus on?
I don’t have a writing process really, sometimes it’s just word vomit. I spill out all my ideas and emotions at once then go back and edit or make changes. I will say I like to have piano music playing in the background when I write though!
4. What is your creative process when you write? Is there a mood you set? A mindset you focus on?
I wish more people knew that writing does not have a right or wrong way. Anyone can write and b should write. It’s a beautiful thing that everyone can be a part of and express their emotions.