So now that we’ve established that March is officially breast month here, let’s end the month with a flourish, shall we? And then we’ll have to find something else to talk about in April, lest I be compelled to change the blog name to “Postcards from my Bra”. Penises, perhaps?
Ahem, anyway, here’s a little secret I never told you. (I *know*!! Who would have guessed that I was capable of keeping a secret from the Interwebs? Not me, and certainly not Beloved!!)
So anyway, about breasts. Right. Last summer, I did some research and asked my GP for a referral to have breast reduction surgery. This is something I’ve toyed with, pondered over, and secretly desired for most of my adult life. I was completely fed up with trying to find bras that fit; at the time, my measurements were in the 35-36 range for band size and an F or G in cup size — the land of cup sizes beyond DD gets a little sketchy in the consistency department. More than the ill-fitting bras and puckered buttons on my shirt-fronts, though, I was sick to death of constantly being damp and itchy under my breasts and from having to reach under me and tuck the damn things out of the way every time I rolled over in bed. (Pencil test – ha! I could keep an entire stationery store hidden under there.)
The final injustice, though, was the sheer number of times my nipples were knelt on or stepped on while a toddler or child moved anywhere near me in bed. After a lifetime of being vexed by my breasts at every opportunity, I was more than happy to chop them down to a more manageable size. The idea of being a C cup seemed like winning the lottery… and if they would throw in a wee bit of a lift to get my nipples up and out of risk of being tucked into my waistband, so much the better.
After screwing up my courage for a couple of weeks, at my annual physical I asked my GP to make the referral for me. I wasn’t sure what kind of wait list I’d be facing, and I wasn’t ready to actually go through with the surgery until some time this summer or later, but I wanted to get in and see someone and explore my options. To my great consternation, a couple of weeks later my GP called to say that the surgeon wouldn’t even see me until my body mass index (BMI) was below 22, which would be at around 176 lbs for me. I’d just started the week before with Dr Bishop’s weight loss plan, and at the time I weighed 191 lbs.
I was furious. Furious! Not so much because I’d been thwarted — I wasn’t exactly convinced that I wanted the reduction in the first place. I was angry, though, that someone shaped like me could be denied this surgery sight-unseen, based solely on what are increasingly questionable calculations. No doubt I was overweight, but I was far from obese. I felt like the doctor should have at least seen me and assessed me in person.
By the time I was down below 170 lbs and within the surgeon’s “acceptable” weight range for a consult, I had lost my courage again. I haven’t called back to make the appointment. Part of that is, of course, because when you lose 30+ lbs, you do lose inches everywhere, breasts included. Part of that is the fact that we’re likely within weeks if not days of weaning Lucas — or, more specifically, of Lucas weaning himself. My band size is back down to a 32 or 33, and my cup size is somewhere just above a DD. To paraphrase an old favourite quote of mine, I used to be a 34DD, now I’m a 34 long. I’d still like to get it done, but I’m just not sure if the annoyance factor of dealing with my breasts as they are outweighs the annoyance factor of going through with the surgery.
I may yet screw up my courage enough to follow through on this, but for now I’ll wait it out and see how the ‘chafe’ factor plays out this summer. In the interim, though, I really do have to get myself a couple of quality bras. None of my old pre-pregnancy ones fit anymore — that in itself is enough to keep me happy for the time being!
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