Deflated C-cup Adding 400-450cc to Bring Volume Back Post-nursing - Salt Lake City, UT

I'm writing this [long] review because while I am scheduled for a breast augmentation, I don't think I would have considered someone like me a likely candidate. I also recognize the Ideal Implant is relatively new to the market. Thus, I think a thorough detailing of my journey might prove useful, hopefully insightful, and even fun for someone else contemplating a BA with Ideal Implants. Plus, I wanted more in-depth information than I was able to come across on-line, so maybe this will help fill-in the collective knowledge bank.
Here's my specs:
35 years-old
5'5"
140 lbs (recently gained 5lbs. since lifting weights)
16% body fat
Otherwise delighted with my body
Married 15 years to the father of...
Our 3 children (breastfed babies # 2 and 3 for a combined total of 3.5 years)
Stay-at-home mama
Homeschooling mama
Mini-farm-operating lady
Goat-lover
Politically conservative (I didn't say republican!) lover of Jesus
B.A. In English Literature
"Whew! Anything else?" You may wonder.
Well, I figure it can be helpful to put it all on the line since I'm operating anonymously anyway (and you'll be viewing photos of my boobs in a moment). We'll consider the above info. our introduction, kinda like a handshake.
Now, back to the part where I flap-up my thin cotton T-shirt, bear my lovelies and make my debut on 'Mom's Gone Wild'.
Perhaps like me, you are occasionally struck with what a funny notion boob augmentation is to begin with? I will say that prior to having their lovely plumpness drained out like sun-ripened raisins, I didn't get the whole notion of plastic surgery procedures anyway. Pretty much unaware. Yep, glass houses and stones and all that. Blissfully ignorant. Let's just say, now I get the desire to augment God's gifts and frankly, it is a pretty sweet option. Definitely a perk of living 'first-world' style. Our priorities are pretty ridiculous if you take even a cursory look at what is actually of significance in the world.
Alas, I'm writing a review on fake boobs, not the philosophy of relativity and world suffering, so back to the REAL self, if you will. Here's why I'm choosing Ideal Implants:
#1 safety
Bear with me, because the following story relates, guaranteed.
Recently I tried making my own chicken-waterer. We have 18 thirsty hens and 3 naughty roosters (also thirsty). After drilling through a 5-gallon bucket, cutting various lengths of tubing and attaching watering-nipples to PVC pipe, I busted out the tube of- you guessed it- silicone sealant. Nasty stuff, really. Slightly smelly, sticky to no end, impossible to manage. Helpful maybe, but only insofar as I didn't get it where it wasn't supposed to be (like my hair or all over the floor). Maybe this begins to illuminate my decision against putting a similar substance inside my chest- insecurely sealed inside a delicate puncturable pouch.

Saline, on the other hand, is composed of salt and water. You use it to moisten your eyes, mix it with alcohol to ward off swimmer's ear and play in it at the beach. Somehow, everything in me feels much safer knowing a potential leak in my body will essentially be crying tears of absorbable sadness rather than silently oozing toxic sludge into my chest cavity. Call me dramatic.

Not that simple.
Even though it seems the "ideal" choice, based strictly on potential toxicity, there are some aspects that cause me some level of concern/ possibility of disappointment:
1. Choosing a "look"
At this time, Ideal Implants are only available in a profile most similar to a silicone high-profile, round. Probably not my first choice as concerns appearance, but I'm counting on my existing breast tissue to help "buffer" the transition, so to speak. I'm also more interested in fullness while clothed rather than bear-it-all perfection a la the porn industry. It's more than likely that- apart from my husband- no one, save my kids wandering into the bathroom, will be seeing my naked breasts; let alone examining them for minuscule variations.
2. Longevity of product use
Anytime you try the newest product in any domain of medicine, there is the inherent "guinea pig" risk. I'm guessing this tends to be most non-Ideal Implant-using doctors' reasoning; too new, too few. Approved by the FDA, but that doesn't actually do much for me. Their approval track record isn't exactly synonymous with safety.
"Then why take the risk?"You may ask.
Well, in short, I'm already taking a risk. Any elective surgery carries risk; rupture, encapsulation, infection, countless other risks. From the information I've come across ( not comprehensive, to be sure) I have read little to no bad press thus far and worst case scenario, I end up in the company of Tara Reid and require a new set of girls. If it gets to that point, I'm guessing I wouldn't be footing the repair bill. But finances are part of the investment, after all. Speaking of...
3. Cost
The Ideal runs $1,000-$1,500 more than silicone, initially. I say initially because according to my calculations, the number of MRIs the silicone sisters require over time quickly add up to more than the initial outlay of cash for the Ideal. And I'm not certain, but unless a BA is reconstructive, insurance is off the table for follow-up MRIs. And I think they run anywhere from $500-$1000.

All for now.....more to come.

Sure, it's my journey and all that- my body, my boobs, my outcome. But would it really be fair to exclude my husband in all this? I realize not all ladies have the experience of a supportive fellow, so I understand if this consideration is lost on you. But really, I do. I mean, so supportive that when I mentioned I was considering getting my boobs done, he was ready to mortgage the house (kidding!). But he could hardly conceal his smile.
A word on this guy. What's funny to me is that my husband is about as clean-cut as they come. As far as someone that lives out virtuous beliefs, it's him. I mean, certainly imperfect in some ways, but trustworthy and dependable to a fault. For instance, around the time he started college, the miracle/curse of the internet arrived on the scene. It didn't take long for him to decide he needed to make a conscious choice about porn. So he decided it didn't fit with who God wanted him to be and he decided he would never "do" porn. And apart from some soft-core moments in our rom-com viewing, he's kept his word. What's more, he "saved", "held-out", "kept it in his pants" until he married me. I mean talk about keepin' it chaste.
Now, here's the kicker, this guy is no monk. He relishes a nice set of breasts. I learned early on in our marriage that it was stupid for me to demand he not notice (or appreciate) a full-to-overflowing set of ta-tas practically spilling onto his face when a server took his order or some similar scenario. I mean he's not an ogler. That wouldn't really fly. But a thorough breast-appreciator, that's him.
He's always been a big fan of my body. I've stayed within a fairly modest range of weight, usually about ten to fifteen up or down. Even during pregnancy, he was complimentary. Probably because of my engorged breasts. Anyway, I really credit him with helping me like my body because he's always seemed genuinely pleased just to get a chance to look at my female form.
So fast forward to when, after 16 months of nursing baby #3, I had my fill of being suckled and groped by a midget. I was kind of desperate to cut the kid off. Prior to this moment, I was a thorough-going attachment model mama. My son nursed so often and pulled my boobs so far beyond where they ever should have stretched, I began to expect they might spontaneously abandon their post on my chest and become independent entities. As this never happened, I decided I had to dry the bitches up cold turkey. A bad, bad move.
For two (very) solid weeks, my boobs were burning hot, aching melons. As painful as weaning was, I couldn't relent. My husband enjoyed the sight of my awkwardly engorged boobs, but couldn't get within a yard of me to save his life.
And then that very memorable day came when they seemed to disappear from existence entirely and I stood with bewildered face in front of the bathroom mirror. "Honey!" I called to him in a slightly panicked voice, "Come here a minute."
Had he had a minute to collect his thoughts and responses, as husbands often must in order to avoid the wrath of their wives, he might have acted confused and wondered, "what's up? what are we looking at?" But there was no time for pretense.
Like me, he stood dumbstruck as two floppy alien flaps of skin stared back at us with their droopy nipple eyes.
After a quiet moment, I asked, "What happened?! Where'd they go?"
He kind of shook his head and tried to compose himself and move on before I could micro-analyze his expression to fully determine his level of disappointment. Men are far smarter than we give them credit for, you see. He knew he had to jump the trap quickly if he was ever going to make it out alive.
Call what happened next projection, but for all my disappointment, I started on a line of cross-examination that no mastermind could evade. What were his feelings about my boobs now? Was he disappointed? How disappointed? Would he even be able to get an erection with my limp biscuits? Oh my golly, is this the end for us?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
After assuring me time and again that he would love my "titties" no matter their shape and size, he darted away.
Over the next few days and weeks, I announced I loved my new tiny tits. I could run freely, not wear a bra, and felt lighter in general. It was great. So great I couldn't stop saying it.
But when I was alone, I would steal guilty glances at my boobs in the mirror or while walking past wide store front windows and felt not a little sad. With no boobs, my butt suddenly took on Kardashianesque projection. I'd always considered myself fairly proportionate. Suddenly, I looked bottom-heavy.
And then my children began to make passing comments. My then-five-year-old daughter was most astute in her observations,
"Mom, what happened to your tee-tees? There's definitely no more milk in those. They're kind of like flat water balloons."
"You're right, babe." and then I launched into a far-too-detailed explanation of the limits of skin elasticity to which she lost interest in about 10 seconds.

______________________more to come......

So as I get closer to my own BA procedure, I find I encounter lots of thoughts and ponderings. I am naturally a very analytical person-easily prone to overthinking the minutia.
I was chatting with my husband about some late night thoughts I had (anyone else prone to total irrational thinking at 3 a.m. ?) As a general rule, he is a really helpful person to process with and this may explain why talking people out of their crazy is how we pay the bills.

Anyway, he helped me to reframe my thinking and encouraged me to think of my procedure as more of a restoration project. When I took a few minutes to go back and look at the history of my boobs (#historyofboobs)????, I realized I mostly didn't have a great enough appreciation for what I had going on!
I suppose that comes naturally when you are busy nursing babies and chasing toddlers. Also, there is nothing like a few years of aging to help you appreciate what you had!

After viewing *way too* many breast photos of other women on this site, I am reminded that over the course of even two weeks, I have become extremely de-sensitized to the fact that I am looking at photo after photo of OTHER women's boobs! I mean there's something to doing "research", and then there's simply gorging. Like picking up the sample dish in the candy store and tipping it into your gob.
I'm about one month pre-op and already I find I'm talking myself into higher CCs after perusing the pages of RS. And then I realize that every experience is different. For the mamas out there, it is similar to childbirth- what will it be like? Will I deliver vaginally? What if something goes wrong? Not a perfect comparison, but some similarities stand. No amount of research can prepare you for the ultimate reality of your OWN experience. At some point, you have to trust yourself, your choices and your doctor and then move on with Baby.
In a similar way, the profiles on RS are extremely limited. Just because "BigTitsTina" in Cleveland is rocking her 600 CCs in selfies and $100 VS bras doesn't mean she's representing everything about her reality. She might be desperately lonely, spend hours crying on her couch everyday, and wish she lived in Dayton. But all you see is her awesome giant rack (and not even her face!). We gotta keep it real about the limitations of cosmetic surgery (and online profiles).
A BA can't change your heart (figuratively speaking) and the human tendency toward envy and greed and dissatisfaction is something that will be with you even after you leave the operating room.
From what I gather about boobie greed, it seems the perfect example of the "greener grass" phenomenon. If you spend a large portion of time focusing on anything someone else has (and flaunts), you're prone to begin "needing" it also. It's being human.
Don't beat yourself up. If you're suffering from BG (because acronyms are awesome), I'm guessing a good week or two break from looking at breasts might just restore perspective and minimize comparison (the root of all great dissatisfaction).
In my life, there have been times when I had to reign myself in as related to body-image stuff. Even though I never dealt with being overweight or flat-chested or many of the so-called teenage afflictions, I thought I had a big butt and big thighs or whatever Seventeen magazine told me I needed to worry about. It wasn't until I was twenty that I finally realized these magazines and television shows were actually teaching me what I should be worrying about whether they were my issues or not. Behold, the power of suggestion. Then I decided I would stop the indoctrination and I didn't look at mags or certain shows for a few years. Guess what? My need to be a certain "thing" diminished and I began to be able to look in the mirror and see myself without 35 critics in my head giving me their expert opinions. Freedom! Thank you, Jesus.
Just something to chew on. If you find yourself drawn into "boobie greed", perhaps it is time to stop subjecting yourself to everyone else's expert opinion and instead focus on what is actually happening within yourself; evaluate what you really value in life and what need you're trying to meet by continuing to dream of larger breasts (post- BA). We're all vulnerable if we don't work to stay grounded.

The last few days I've really been having doubts about the procedure. I'm 3 weeks away. Just hoping I don't feel annoyed with having foreign objects implanted in me. I literally used to say, "I'd never get implants because I'd end up ripping the damn things out."
Also feeling a bit sheepish thinking about family gatherings over the holidays. I don't want to hide- I want to make my mind up to be confident and not revert to slouching around in bulky-sweaters to hide my nice, $6,000 boobs.

I guess these fears just expose how crazy unkind we women can be with one another. Shoot! I wish I could exclude myself from being a jealousy-driven "hater" at times. But the sad reality is that I've said my share of haughty comments when pointing out gals with [ver obvious] plastic surgery.

And the crazy thing is that all this "cosmetic" attention I've been recently giving myself is something I didn't see coming. I have talked about "aging gracefully" and "not fighting the inevitable" and yet here I am, doing both.

And now I'll just be over here enjoying a slice of my humble pie. Until soon.

It's 5 am and I never intentionally wake up this early to peruse boob pics- I'm not a teen boy, after all. Alas, here I find myself, laying in the dark, wondering how it is I'm just over 24 hours away from getting my boobs done.
Last night before bed I was checking in with the husband and I had to remark, "Pretty sure you're way more excited than me."
Being an honest fellow, he agreed, then added,
"Well, we were both excited at first when you started talking about it. I'm still feeling that way....."
"And then I got into my funk." I offered.
He agreed I've been in a pretty somber, somewhat withdrawn mood for a couple of weeks. Not down, per se, but focused. I've kind of felt like it's game time and I gotta be ready- so my mind has been elsewhere. Plus, I've been attempting to get all the details of our life with 3 kids, running a household & lesson planning in order- ready for the sitter to seamlessly take the wheel.

I'm looking forward to getting on the road with my bestie today and driving 5 hours to my pre-op. Glad I will have a bit of a buffer between my 'ordinary' life and this experience- at least for a few days. I feel ready, but also find myself wondering, 'do I really need boobs? Aren't mine perfectly fine?!' And then I'm reminded that getting bigger boobs is never necessary! This is a plastic, not functional, procedure. It's like opting for whiter teeth or a new hairstyle.
Stay tuned, because THIS.IS.HAPPENING.

It just so happens that as soon as I entered [the most blissful] induced sleep of my life, a storm on par with a small hurricane hit the town of Layton, UT. I may be the only person who slept right through.

My friend had decided to *quickly* drive back to the hotel 3 minutes away from the clinic to drop some things off and get back to me with plenty of time. Cue the hurricane; horizontal sheets of blinding rain, felled trees and octopus power lines were what greeted her not 2 minutes into her journey.

By the time she reached the hotel, sheets of roofing were blowing off and it was completely dark inside. She made her drop in the room and got back into a completely frozen line of traffic where she waited 45 minutes to travel one mile back to the clinic.

Upon waking, I was looped and none the wiser. The staff told me the clinic had lost power and the generator had kicked right on. One nurse said they could hear the wind whipping against the building from inside the OR.

All this to say, upon leaving the clinic, we opted not to return to the darkness of our hotel. Instead we went to a nearby town and had dinner. This is when I could wait no longer and I visited the restroom for a peek at my new additions.

We returned to the still-dark hotel around 9 pm and were given a flashlight to find our room. A fellow guest joked [not to my particular amusement] that we scored roles in our very own horror movie. ; think 'The Shining'. It was looking like we'd be without power for the night. Thankfully, the lights flickered back on by 10. Hooray! I seriously felt great right up until I tried to go to sleep.

More on that later...

Bummed, to say the very least. That first night about 8 hours after the procedure, something felt "off". Hard to say what caused it, but here's what happened:
-Swelling
-Pain
-Significant rise on left
-Sensation my implant/ muscle was about to rocket out of my clavicle
I tossed and turned (every move was pure torment) in bed to get comfortable. I should have just stayed on my back on the wedge pillow.
By morning, I was so swollen on the left I could hardly move. By my post-op appointment, the swelling had gone down a bit. Doc looked at me and determined I had a minor hematoma. I appreciated how straight-forward he was in communicating his thought process; on the one hand, he talked about going right back to the OR to take a look, but there was also the possibility that going back into the pocket unnecessarily or aspirating with a syringe could lead to bigger issues.
It seems to be a matter of severity which is difficult to determine without going back inside. Because I'm an out-of-town client, we're going to keep in touch via text this weekend and he will bring me back in a hurry if it looks any worse.

I checked in with my PS this morning via text and photos, and he is confident my left is just high and will slowly gravitate to meet my right. He didn't seem at all concerned about a hematoma at this point. Super relieving! Can't say enough about how conscientious and attentive Dr. Yates is!

Anybody else had success getting the girl(s) to drop with any technique other than time?