Treasure Chest

Once bulbous and unwieldy the breasts now sliced and molded into smaller manageable mounds sit perky yet unrecognizable on the woman’s chest. 

Formed by deft and experienced surgeon hands with an entourage of residents witnessing the transformation. She, on the other hand, will have no memory of the blood, veins, skin, and tissue cut and manipulated on the operating table. She will awaken fitted and set into a utilitarian bra filled with loose gauze. Her breasts sewn and glued into a new rack— one that no longer can act as a shelf for a coffee cup, phone, or fallen crumbs. 

Her back and neck pain immediately disappears. The new state of being isn’t so much pain as it is tightness and mostly fear. Fear of volunteering her breasts to be cut up and sewn into much smaller forms. Fear that it was her “J” cup sized breasts that her husband was attracted to and now what’s left to love. Fear that she lost her identity as the girl with big breasts. 

However, the immediate fear is that of her surgeon. Ice was placed on the nipples after surgery by a nurse who perhaps lacked experience with a breast reduction. The doctor tells the woman he’s worried about the right one. 

“Ice should have never been placed. The nipples need heat to survive. We do not want the blood vessels to constrict.” 

Over the next 24 hours the doctor will check for sensitivity. The first check she feels nothing on the right. She only has feelings from the left. The second check she feels is a bit more felt on the right, but nowhere near as much felt on the left. Still in the recovery room, after 24 hours of direct warm heat blowing on her chest from an inflatable device called a Bear Hug, she can now fully feel the doctor’s touch. 

Sent home after two full days, she is transported with a foam cushion on her chest protecting her from the seatbelt. She and her husband wince in unison every time they hit a bump. Again, it isn’t about the pain, but more about the fragile feeling that any pressure to the area could cause more swelling and damage.  At home, it is time for her first shower. She undresses carefully, removing her button down flannel shirt she wore for comfort and warmth. Next, is the removal of the velcro bra. Slowly the ripping sound reminds her of pulling off a bandaid. It is usually better to do it quickly but she’s too frightened. She’s about to witness the first full reveal of what she now looks like. In the hospital, she could only see from the tops of her breasts and nipples. Most of the incision is underneath and on her sides. She stands in front of her bathroom mirror. Her eyes are lowered at half mast. She brings the lights down to the dimmest level. When she gets the first full picture of her new self, a shiver runs through her body. Her breasts are badly bruised. The unrecognizable swollen hills are a third of their previous size. They are lined in blue which she first thinks are stitches, but later finds out is the color of the glue. The look is Frankenstein-ish and she quickly locks the door so her husband doesn’t see the horror. 

In the shower, the water feels like an assault. She trembles and moans a squeal much like air being let out of a balloon. The breasts are hard, very hard. Not the slightest malleable. Will they ever soften, she wonders? Is this what fake breasts feel like? Her arms range of motion is shortened. Everything takes longer than it should. Even putting the front closing Velcro bra back on is a feat. 

This routine goes on for a week. The shower, something she always looked forward to is now the last thing she wants to do. She forces it nightly before going back to her 24-hour bed because what else can she do? It is a week before Christmas. She entertains herself with corny Christmas movies—very conscious of the females on screen and their breast sizes. She’s too big, She’s too small, she’s just right. She wonders where she now fits. She’s no longer the woman with the giant breasts. She’s now average. She’s never been average. How will she stand out? Maybe it’s time she doesn’t stand out. Maybe there is peace in not standing out. No more eye to nipple contact from men. No more assumptions, she exists for their pleasure.” No more dents in her shoulders from bra straps digging through damaged flesh and heart.  

Every day brings a new worry. Why are the nipples pointed in different directions? Did the Dr. sew them too tightly? What is this purple dot in the areola? Is it dying? Why lumps? Why protruding veins along her ribs? And, what are these horizontal snake-like bruises on her back. 

Her Dr. answers all her questions with the same response. “This is normal.” He reminds her the back bruises were liposuction removing what he called bra fat. “Oh, I forgot you said you were doing that,” she responds. 

Week after week the recovery does not seem to move in the right direction. At one point her breasts seem even more swollen. The doctor orders an ultrasound to check for hematomas that may need aspiration or an infection that may need a stronger antibiotic than the preventive one she is currently taking. The radiologist finds nothing remarkable enough to aspirate. She is given an intravenous dose of a stronger antibiotic—just in case an infection is brewing. 

Each week that passes she can move her arms more. More weeks pass and  the swelling and bruising have diminished. Now when she presses on her breasts they finally move. The glue is gone and the scars are minimal. Her arm movements are full and she can wear a normal bra although her cup size has gone down several sizes from a “J” to a “D.” She starts to throw out her torturous old bras. They look strange. The one cups can fit over her head like a beanie. She tries one on and her new breasts are lost in the lace as if someone eviscerated them. She thinks of her dog and how he pulls all the stuffing out of his stuffed animals. 

Her husband still hasn’t seen her new breasts. It’s now become a thing and she’s not sure when she should unveil them. She decides she will do it on their vacation next week.  In Puerto Rico, she rarely wears a bra. The phrase, “I’m not even wearing a bra!” is repeated daily and becomes a running joke. What wasn’t funny were the bras over these last 10 years. They were excruciatingly painful with straps digging into her shoulder leaving red divets. The pain never let up from the minute she put one on in the morning until it came off at night. Now she was free of that pain. Her only wish, “Why didn’t I do this sooner.”  She puts on a new bathing suit in the bathroom. It is the first time she’s had one without underwire. It is the first time she didn’t have to wear a bra underneath. In fact, anything she wears now without a bra looks as if she’s wearing a bra. The new breasts are perfectly set. She steps into the room, flips down the top of her suit and asks her husband what he thinks. His eyes widen and he says they look great. She doesn’t feel he’s authentic, but the bulge forming in his shorts says otherwise.

Note from the editors: If you are as blown away by “Treasure Chest” as we were, check out Andrea’s most recent piece on HuffPost about the election and the holidays and what happens when a family isn’t politically aligned. Then read what happened when that piece went viral.

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