5’9”, 120 lbs, 340/310cc with Pectus Excavatum and Inverted Nipples—oh my!

I remember sitting on the bleachers for 8th-grade orientation, and I finally felt like an official adult; this was my first day of wearing a bra! (Visualize here what most folks graduated from as they left fourth grade for the summer.) Now mind you, this “bra” (absolutely needs to be put in quotation marks) was 100% not out of necessity, but rather a meager attempt at feeling like every other teenager. I had always been very, very thin (partially my genes and the other part attributed to being active as a competitive ballerina), and my buds just had not blossomed yet, so I took matters into my own hands and demanded my mom purchase a boulder-holder (*cough* pebble-holder) for me. But as grown as I felt in that moment at school, I remember watching all the other girls walk in, and they looked like full-fledged women...at 13! I distinctly remember thinking that one developmentally-gifted girl was a teacher, only for her to take a seat amongst all the other students. Oi! From that moment on, fueled by being teased—mostly in jest, but also not always—by schoolmates, fellow dancers, boyfriends, family members, and most often myself as a means of deflecting a deep-seeded insecurity and coping with the lack of confidence that I felt daily, I told myself honestly every day that I’d get a boob job. And fast-forward to the age of 33, and I finally did it!
I ultimately chose my doctor based on popularity in this city, photos online, and oddly, the most expensive. An avid Dave Ramsey follower, I’m a fan of budgeting virtually everything. However, this was not a time when I wanted to nail a bargain. My brain’s logic: The more expensive, the more consistent and talented the surgeon. Is this flawed? Potentially. Am I mad about it? Not even a little.
I had scheduled an appointment with two different surgeons within one medical group. This may be a faux pas, but my thought was that this was not a time to be mindful of cosmetic surgery etiquette; I was going to be with these boobs for the rest of my life and I wanted the best, regardless of the path. However, during the consultation with the first doctor, the one I favored based on pictures of his work and his lengthy experience, I asked if I could cancel the other appointment. (I basically had only selected the second surgeon because he was young—Was he up-to-date on cutting-edge technology?—and because he went to med school with my boyfriend and was supposedly a kind human. I dig that.) The nurses and doctor chuckled, kind of hinting that they knew I’d want to do that—in an endearing way, not bratty—after meeting with this surgeon.
The doctor spent nearly an hour with me. The majority of the discussion centered on how I my chest dimensions are very, very narrow, my pectus excavatum presents limited options in terms of size and profile options, and (spoiler alert!) my breasts lack tissue. I didn’t even bother mentioning my inverted nipples, because while they bothered me slightly, they were not always inverted. And honestly, I didn’t totally care about them. I had never had an intimate partner demand I put my shirt back on after seeing them. When stimulated, they were good to go, so they ranked much lower on the priority list, far below Mission: Get Knockers.
The surgeon said he would use two different implant sizes because of the pectus excavatum (now fluent in Latin), which translates to: My chest and ribcage sit wonky; my left side protrudes more, my chest dips, and my ribcage sticks out so I appear starved. (My definition, not the doctor’s, surely that needed clarified.) I also had more breast tissue on the left side; it was the least the universe could do given how bold that side was in the rib department. The three size options he presented were 310, 340, and 375, all Natrelle. He said he preferred (1) using smooth and round in case the implant shifts within they are still always symmetrical, (2) placing under the muscle to look more natural (said he only does over for those very into weight-lifting, which just ain’t me), and (3) placing high profile because I am so (dang!) narrow in the chest. I of course wanted the 375 (really wanted about 2,500 ccs but apparently that’s not an option, nor would they look natural) despite starting so small at a 32B. He expected me to pick the middle size, 340, and once I had chosen the 375, he remeasured me and said that would actually not be an option due to my data. Later I learned that 340 and 375 have the same projection, just the 375 is wider. So future implantees, don’t let those cc numbers trip you up. They could be essentially the same!
I went back for one more consultation before my surgery, primarily to convince him of using 375 (I didn’t know at the time it was the same projection). He humored me by remeasuring, and then kindly laughed, matching my joking nature, and said he wouldn’t do anything that he would not also do if performing surgery on someone in his own family. Oddly, this made me feel at ease rather than defeated, knowing he was only doing what was best for me. And at the end of the day, he was the expert, not me. This was his wheelhouse, and I knew to trust him—even though the moment he was marking me at the surgery center I still tried to con him into going bigger! We both laughed in that moment, too. Life is good.

1. Get some intense skin oil. I read somewhere to apply lotion to your boobs for two weeks prior to the surgery because it makes the skin more pliable and less likely to create stretch marks. Are stretch marks bad? No. Did I want them if I didn't have to have them? No. Was this article I read from a doctor? No (from a patient). Could it be completely fabricated but a placebo made me feel better? Yes. Is it something I continue to do even five weeks later and will continue until the six-month mark? Absolutely. Use whatever brand you like. I love this Dr. Palmer's oil. It's a fun addition to my skin care routine (I don't even wash my face and caution you against it too (just try it to see the magic it works!). I just use toner, eye cream, moisturizer, and SPF mineral peptides. But I digress. I apply this boob lubricator twice a day and genuinely look forward to it. (I'm easily excitable.) I'd caution against Aquaphor, but if you're loyal, use it. To me it remains sticky to the touch for too long and my skin feels like it can't breathe.
2. Get a bed wedge pillow. I can't hyperlink, but here's the web address: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07QNZCR4Y/refppx_yo_dt_b_asin_title_o04_s01?ieUTF8&psc1. This has been so great to sleep on. I used it to sleep upright for the first week and now continue to use it--and will probably always be a loyal fan--even five weeks later while reading in bed. I doubt my boyfriend loves looking over at his geriatric partner propped up on this heinous pillow, but he snores and I just bought us two new toys for the bedroom. He'll survive.
3. Put everything at eye level. Closet items, laundry detergent, dishes, any and everything out where you can easily grab it. Could I have raised my arms up to grab everything even the day of? Yes. But I didn't want to. Ask your surgeon, but I'd recommend it for the four weeks that I did it. (I lived for those four weeks of doing minimal chores. I, however, live alone with the exception of my two cats, and if you're wondering, they didn't mind.)
4. Stock up on comfort food! I read people saying that they bought soups and crackers and things that were easy to eat and digest right after their surgery. On the ride home, I wanted a pizza. There was not even a moment when I had anything less than what I'd describe as a pre-period appetite. I wanted things that make me feel cozy, like chips, chocolate, and items with cheese. I was a huge proponent of intuitive eating pre-boobs, so why would I change post-? I suppose that everyone is different, but I'd suggest getting the things that you usually want when you feel less than a 5 on a health scale.
5. Clean, Cinderella. Change the sheets, sweep the floors, and do the dishes. It will feel so delightful to come home to a clean space and it will serve you as you take it easy for a while. I love to clean and tidy but absolutely enjoyed my time off and felt like I could do so with ease since I had the house in tip top shape before the procedure.
6. Get a good book! Skip Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine. Snore. She's a less endearing version of Bridget Jones. Get Where the Crawdads Sing if you haven't read it yet, my fav. read of 2019.

But that's it. Those are really the only things I think are musts before the surgery. Anything else I planned to do I forget because I didn't do it. Also, relax if you're feeling underprepared; it'll all work out.

I probably should have written this as Week 1 progressed, but I'm also kind of liking only reflecting and typing what I remember since those are the true moments of the process that stand out.
I had to arrive at the outpatient surgery center at 6 a.m. I scheduled mine early because I wanted the doc fresh! I slept maybe three hours because I was so excited. Rec: Get up and shower the morning of (read: no lotions or deodorant or perfume). Do this for the sake of humanity. Kidding, but I'm a two-shower-a-day human; the thought of having to sit in my own filth repulsed me, so I showered at the last possible second.
Check in and all that jazz was uneventful. The only real standout of a moment is that after I changed into my gown and before I headed back to the operating room, the nurse added heating pads to my legs, and I felt like royalty. I also remember the nurse kept calling me "gal." Very pertinent information. Anyway, my surgeon came in to mark me up, and here was when I made that last-ditch effort to con him into going bigger (note: I did not realize the 340 and 375 had the same projection at the time). He laughed and told me, yet again, no. I chalked it up as a loss, but more as a he's-a-certified-expert-with-a-degree-and-I've-done-nothing-but-read-blogs-dating-as-far-back-as-2007. He left the room and before I knew it I was visited by the anesthesiologist and being wheeled back. After going through a few sets of doors they told me they were going to have me walk into the operating room (I initially typed delivery room, and I guess in a sense they were delivering me my new twins), and I have to be honest: I had a diva moment. I thought, I did not pay thousands of dollars to be at this facility to have to do the walking; y'all better wheel me in. But, I had waited a long time for these boobs, and consider myself to be pretty chill, and my mother would have been so embarrassed had I not represented her well, so I kept the Queen Bee thoughts to myself. So there I was walking in there and the moment I sat down, everyone started buzzing around so very quickly. I distinctly remember saying, "Someone should've prepped me for how fast you guys move. But I'm also pleased because I don't want to be charged for another half an hour of anesthesia," and then that's literally my last memory. Not ever, but just of the surgery process.
I next remember waking up in the room I was in before being wheeled through any doors, the room where the nurse called me "gal" on repeat. I guess there's a room where you go before being transferred back, but I don't remember that at all! The nurse told me I should feel zero pain, and I'm not sure if I was just out of it or what, but I told her I had some and then moments later I didn't. I felt like a wizard.
All uneventful for the rest of the day, but on way home I insisted my boyfriend drive us past the new house we're building. He absolutely did not want to, particularly since he is an ER physician and well-versed on the medication I received, but he's also well-versed on being my partner, knowing how I can be insistent when I want something and it's often just easier to appease the beast. Anyway, we pulled up and I, of course, did not wait for him to open the car door for me (#feminism), got out and made it to the end of the car before I started passing out. I share this not as insightful information as to how you'll feel, but more just because you've been on this journey thus far with me, and so I want you in on the inside joke. All of the construction workers stopped, I guess (I barely remember it), and my boyfriend and I laugh so hard speculating what they thought of me in that moment. Was I drunk that early in the morning? Did I faint in awe of their work? It's all so good. But anyway, remember to, regardless of how amazing you're feeling, Lance Armstrong (and remember that even he, too, was on drugs), take it easy. We went home and I got in my matching jammies and chilled for the rest of the day.
From my previously mentioned anecdote and on the chance that you've spoken to my mom, some may say that I'm stubborn. I don't enjoy that term. I prefer self-sufficient and independent. I'm telling you this because I don't know if I'm too strong-willed or what, but I thought everything was an absolute cake-walk. I would never ever use the term pain to describe any moment of this process. It's only ever felt at times like I had pre-period boobs or like I got in a good chest workout the day before. My boobs have felt full, like milk was coming in (I have never breastfed and I used a surrogate for my cats, so this is all truly speculation). But pain? Never. I would do the same thing a million times over because I've been so happy I did it. I'd recommend going for it and finding the most talented physician in your area. This is not a time to budget. Forgo a few shopping splurges in upcoming years. Save up for as long as it takes. Go a couple months without eating to afford it. OK, I am totally kidding there but seriously, this will hopefully be a gift to yourself that will last a long time and you want to be happy with the results. If you've made it this far in reading and are curious about anything that I didn't cover (and reflecting back, this really has all been a bunch of rambling and not exactly an advice column), shoot me a comment and I'll be sure to answer. Xx!