From DD to Deflation

Every year, for the last 16 years, on April 22nd, I celebrate my Boobiversary. What’s a Boobiversary, you might ask? Twenty four years ago I lost 160 pounds on my own and, for my 29th birthday, I decided to buy myself boobs. The excess skin I carried from the self-propelled weight loss was a menace to my mental health so I took my 0% interest rate credit card and marched to Madison Avenue — managing my thoughts, chafing folds of back skin, and deflated breasts with plastic surgery.   

On April 22nd 2009, when all was said and done, the doctor picked up the phone from the operating room, called my aunt and announced, “She’s out of surgery, and she has a great rack.”

I woke up bruised, bloated and like a sewing machine ran over my back and breasts. I was free of sagging skin and part of my story. For 16 years, every year, on that morning, I would take my top off and admire my breasts. Somewhat symmetrical, perfectly perky and bulbous boobs stared right back at me in the mirror. It was true love. I’d then take them out to celebrate, often with wine and French food, escargot, and a sweet to finish. It was just us. I dote over my DD’s like they’re my babies because, well, they are. A symbol of financial ability, womanhood, my story, strength — and a decision I made on my own. My belly, thighs and arms still sag with pounds of excess skin, but my breasts are beacons of light on my body — in all of her beauty and destruction. 

This year I received a note on my mammogram. Only days after their Sweet 16, I was told that my left breast implant is possibly ruptured, the MRI confirmed the rupture and silicone leak. I cried. What will happen to our celebrations? Do I replace my deflated breasts with new implants or remove both of the implants and live, once again, in a body that I’m unsure I know how to celebrate? What will I see when I look in the mirror?