My imperfect breasts
I thought long and hard before posting this. My friend had a traumatic time last week when one of her breast implants leaked. She had them put in 7 years ago. Technically, she still has a few years left before they have to be removed – I wonder if this fact was made clear to prospective clients by the surgeons, that breast implants leak towards the end of their shelf life and they have to be replaced every 10-20 years? I could not imagine going through such an invasive procedure for life, in my fifties, sixties and even seventies.
My friend experienced swelling and tenderness in one of her breasts on Friday. It got progressively worse. She went back to the hospital where she had them put in, but there was no MRI specialist over the weekend. There was no ultrasound staff either. She and her husband had a sleepless weekend, worrying, as her condition worsened.
On Monday, they returned to the hospital but were fobbed off yet again. Finally, on Tuesday, she was operated on to remove the implant. Well, she was almost not fit enough for surgery, as the previous three days had taken their toll and her heartbeats were erratic.
The operation took six hours.
My friend opted to have a new implant put in.
I make no judgments, as I myself had been bothered by my imperfect pair of breasts to the extent that I made an appointment and walked into a plush hospital in London when I was in my thirties. Then, I saw Alex Karidis, on personal recommendation. He went through the procedure with me, and though I have never been squeamish, I had serious doubts about going through with breast implants, chiefly because I do not want to be tied to going through such an invasive surgery every 10-20 years for life, especially in my 60s and 70s.
It was the right decision for me, made in the light of full disclosure by Alex Karidis.
I do not have a perfect pair, not by a long shot. At 49, and after extensively breast-feeding 5 children, my breasts are not showroom material. They are slightly lopsided (I breastfed predominantly on one side) and my nipples, after years of being tugged by demanding babies with voracious appetite, were rather wonky with a mind of their own. My breasts had never been large anyway. At their best, they were just peachy.
Since my visit to Alex Karidis, I never looked back. I just bought nice bras with good support. And I built my abs up so that I look toned.
But I learned from my personal experience, how a woman’s breasts look does not really matter in a deep, deep relationship.
Now, at 49, I am happier than ever with myself, thanks to a large extent to my partner who had been with me through my difficult times and had seen me at my worse. When I lost my curves in December 2015, he had not made me feel less of a woman. In December 2015, my severe weight loss meant that my breasts were depleted and I was ashamed to show myself to him at first. Adult diapers and bald patches on my hairline didn’t help either. My mum and my aunt, who seldom saw eye to eye, agreed on this one thing: I needed a carer rather than have my man see me like this, in case he loses his desire for me forever. “I’ve seen worse,” he had announced cheerfully. I was too ill to care then.
The first time he touched me as a lover when I was well enough, I crossed my arms self-consciously over my still-droopy breasts when he undressed me.
He had tears in his eyes as he took one of my hands and put it on his heart. “See how fast my heart is beating still? I drove so fast over Albert Bridge to get here,” he had said. “I have never been more nervous, Jac.”
I have since filled out, but my breasts are still far from perfect. I have, on occasions, caught his eyes riveted to bigger, younger, shapelier pairs especially on the beach. But there has always been an abundance of tenderness and passion in him for me, despite my physical imperfections. I could sense that I am the one for him, his girl for this lifetime, when he could have had others who are physically more attractive than I. So I personally think it doesn’t matter what our breasts look like, despite external pressures to look like porn stars. The depth of lovemaking does not come from the appearance or even the act itself, but the emotions within.
I took this photo to send to him (he is away at the moment). He had left a teeth mark or nail mark or whatever on the underside of my breast in his moments of passion a couple of days ago, on the lopsided one with wonky nipple that points south, the one that he adores.
“Hmmm, it looks slightly infected,” he said. “I am a komodo dragon, hey, Jac?”
“Komodo dragon?” I asked, puzzled.
“Sharp teeth, poisonous saliva! Blimey, Jac, didn’t you do any biology in school?”
We laughed and touched each other on our respective computer screens, connected across the miles by Skype. I miss him as much as I did when we were in the throes of our new affair, perhaps even more now and I realised, not for the first time, that the font of our passion is our shared crazy English humour; we come from the same place and there is a lot of comfort in the familiar, a deep joy in the loving. I know every scar, birthmark and imperfection on his body. And that’s sexy 😉
I am in no way opposed to breast implants and I make no judgment. All I am saying is, do your research if you are considering one, but search hard, because the scientific articles on breast implants are dominated by those funded by rich pharmaceutical companies who make those implants. Ask questions. Ask a lot of questions. Also, put your relationships with yourself and your partner under the microscope – how much will an increase in bra size improve the quality of love, or give you what you are looking for?