Defying Gravity

Defying Gravity

It was not until recently after tackling an odd resurgence of map like splatters on my face that I was diagnosed with adult acne. That, combined with my third grade daughter’s question, “Mommy are your boobs drooping a good example of gravity?” that my personal war on aging began. I refrained in that instant from reaching over and pointing to her and her two younger sisters as the culprits of my drooping boobs; instead   answered quietly, “They’re breasts honey, breasts” , praying that my sagging breasts would not be an example used in her science class. That day was the catalyst for the things I wanted to change in my life.

Meanwhile, my husband an idealistic man, insists that mother nature is not to be tampered with. I can’t help but roll my eyes like my daughter’s when he insists that I do bench pressures to raise and firm them.  He sees nothing wrong with the occasional burst of grey on my head or yet another “smile” line. His chuckle at my daughter’s invasive question about my boobs and his nonchalant attitude about aging infuriates me. I resent him for having to bear the scars of aging while his smile lines are hailed as sexy and his sprouting grey hair is considered distinguished. He’d always said and believed I was beautiful. I know he is sincere because after twelve years of marriage we are as passionate as the day we met. Granted, our passion is now penciled in along with the housecleaning, our work schedules, and bedtime stories. His admiration for my breasts and fondness of them is flattering but not enough to wipe away the dissatisfaction I had with them. Besides it isn’t about him, it’s about ME!

I began with an eighteen- month plan of action, leaving the breast issue last after seeing my husband’s stoic gaze every time I mentioned the prospects of altering them. I tried reassuring him that mother nature could use a tweak every now and then but he did not buy this theory. He was adamant about leaving “well enough alone”. Several times he eluded that my negative outlook on the metamorphosis on my body was more of an internal struggle with myself. He may be right.

Starting out with an attractive 36C I’m now a swollen, drooping 38 D cup. My best friend swears it’s a DD. That, combined with an absence of a waist make it to difficult to see where they start and exactly where they finish. My battle for my breasts would pose to be more dramatic, having not realized my husband had a great deal invested in them. It seemed that I was not entitled to altering my breasts without ensuing an all out tug of war in the next few months to come.

It isn’t enough that I am a few years away from the obscure age of 40. I’m now faced with the inevitable flagging signs of that “coming of age” and a husband who was standing in the way of my transformation.  I’ve accepted the hardships that three pregnancies have had on my body: the extra pounds of baby weight… okay the baby now is three, the imprints of happiness around my mouth, the haggard crows feet, and now the breasts. I’ve embraced the signs quietly, but now as if possessed by demons I’m obsessed with finding the best methods for filling, sucking and tucking any loose baggage on my body. Propelled by fear, I take on the task of a transformation.

I knew that I could tackle most of my concerns with the new technologies in skin care, erasing the scribbles of discontent on my face.  I could even argue having my rhinoplasty because it interfered with my night breathing. Okay, I might help the nostrils face northward but that too would be the least of my problems. It looked like my only real dilemma would be the breasts. You see they have and continue to be among the attractions my husband has for me. His attachment to my breast as they were was annoying. It was as though he owned them.

After months of struggling with convincing him, I opted to compromise and pursued seeking professional guidance. To assist me in seeing I was somehow crazed with my new mission. Maybe I didn’t love myself on the inside so I wanted to alter the outside. It made perfect sense in that psychological babble way. After searching for a good family therapist, I settled on a woman in the Vienna, Virginia, with impressive credentials. I made an appointment promptly wanting to exhaust all the possibilities that I may be inadvertently a withering petal of hate.

I found this woman intelligent, sensitive and caring. At $140 a session, I thought it only fair that she do the following: Listen. Empathize. Not Judge. I was however looking for her objectivity or to yell at me : “This is crazy. Women age and that’s that. There is something dreadfully wrong with you!” but instead at the end of our once a week candle lit sessions that lasted a solid eight weeks, I found us exchanging notes on whom I’d seen and their credentials. She eagerly took the homework I’d done for herself. I learned there are some women who actually face the prospects of altering their bodies as a means of motivation and personal fulfillment. I was reassured that I was completely sane and the problem was a matter of divided principles between us. I considered recommending therapy for his attachment to my breasts, but decided not to make matters worse.

In the Spring a year later, I found myself ready for the surgery. Guarded, I proposed to my husband the ultimatum: Breasts Up or life in hell with me. He conceded, warning that if they were too small in the end or that if the mother of his three children died on the operating table, he would tell them how he’d opposed this decision. I made all the arrangements necessary, ignoring his solemn sighs and started looking at smaller size swimming suit options, dreaming of perky upright looking breasts.

When I took my friend into confidence about taking the tumble with the knife, I expected her to be attentive and encouraging. My friend is easily content. It’s a bit of a surprise however that as I’m ranting over breakfast one morning during our ritual coffee “bitch” sessions that she is perplexed by my anxiety. “ I mean I’m sure you sometimes worry about that frown line between your brows, or that your butt is sagging…” but I quickly choked on the foam of my latte when I didn’t see any sympathy. She ignored my indirect insults and shook her head oblivious to my concerns. I admire her attitude about our physical demise. I forged on with plans for finding the right surgeon. In Northern Virginia, once dubbed the highest number of personalized plates(let’s face it, they’re vanity plates), it isn’t hard to find a plastic surgeon.

In April, a routine mammogram check up delayed my plastic dreams.  My gynecologist meekly pointed out that two large concave cysts were found in my left breast. Although she reassured me she it was nothing, I was referred to a breast surgeon. The breast surgeon reassured me it was nothing as well and I turned my pale breasts over for a biopsy. In the weeks that came and went until the outpatient procedure, my husband and I were like hushed winds: he thinking how petty I had been thinking about superficial beauty and me thinking about the possibility of breast cancer. We walked stiffly to the Women’s Hospital in Washington, DC. The procedure was painless, but the few days after were desperate prayers. I did not want to die. I looked at them sadly, pathetic and drooping, and for a spit second I imagined them gone, replaced with flat scars. I would have missed them and then the feelings of guilt and shame took over.

 Eighteen months later, I continue to have follow up mammograms for the benign cysts. “Sometimes it’s the body’s way of producing alien things,” explained the breast surgeon. My husband’s relief swept through him that day the good news was delivered.  He was able to stand tall again lifting his shoulders and allowing deep breaths in. I’ve completed most of my war on lines and crinkles. I chose to cut my companion chocolate, from midnight binge to control bulges at the waist. I’ve even done a few chest presses in an attempt to appease him and see for myself if there was merit to the excercises. There is none.

Now, I look at my breasts lazily swinging underneath my silk top and sigh wearily. For now a healthy pair would do just fine, although according to a John Hopkins doctor, had it been breast cancer a new procedure to remove my breasts would have entailed getting a tummy tuck as well…