This is the first part of Jacky's personal journey through breast reconstruction. After a mastectomy, Jacky was fitted with temporary tissue expanders as the first stage of her reconstruction process. In this candid and moving account, she shares what it is like to live with temporary breasts, how she coped emotionally and physically, and what gave her hope during this challenging time. Jacky's story is a testament to resilience and the power of reconstruction to restore not just appearance, but a sense of wholeness. Follow her journey in the episodes that follow.
Below you will find part 1 of the three-part series; From A to C, in which the late plastic surgeon Paris Melis performs the breast augmentation of journalist Janneke.
Janneke (then 31) is a freelance journalist in Amsterdam. She has a home, a garden, and a cat, but NO BREASTS. In a three-part serial, we follow her on her way to her dream C-cup.
Part one: Temporary breasts, the solution?
Editor-in-chief Eva sends an email. In the past I have written a number of articles for the women's magazine Jackie, and I have small breasts. One and one turns out, oddly enough, to make two. Would I like to try Macrolane: a product for temporary breast augmentation? It is a new treatment in which, without surgery, you go up a cup size through injections with Macrolane. In my case, the treatment would take me from an A to a B. Sounds good. Eva's email is brief — about three lines of explanation plus a closing question: am I interested and can I get back to her as soon as possible? Otherwise she'll look for someone else. I start typing: "Of course I'm interested! Just say where and when." Five seconds later the screen goes blank again. Shortly afterwards a new message appears: "Hi Eva. Thanks for the offer. But I'm not doing it." Sent. And there, in five seconds, is my entire dilemma.
Because yes: I've wanted bigger breasts for a very long time. And no: I don't really dare to have anything done to my body. This could be the end of the story, were it not that this one little email sets off a train of thoughts: could this finally be the solution to a problem that has held me in its grip since puberty? That evening I sit across from my partner Sander at the table. "I got an email today. An assignment from Jackie," I say casually. "They want me to try Macrolane." Sander looks at me. "What?" "Oh, a new product where they can enlarge your breasts without surgery. They inject something that gives you fuller breasts. But I'm not going to do it. I have no idea what it actually is. Yes, Jennifer Aniston has had it done. But who knows what the risks are? So I'm not doing it. Right?" Sander interrupts my rambling: "Why not find out first what it actually is? You've been preoccupied with your breasts for so long. If it turns out to be safe, this seems like a very good solution." I stare at the enormous round potato on my plate.
Before going to sleep, I quickly take a shower. In the dark, as usual — which is both pathetic and true. Anything is better than that unflattering 40 watts on my underdeveloped chest. In bed, our conversation plays through my mind once more. Maybe Sander is right. Doing some research can't hurt, can it? How long have I been dithering about a possible breast augmentation? Macrolane could well be the answer. No surgery. The product is temporary. After a year it's gone. I can see how I like it for a while. And I don't have to 'lie' if I suddenly appear in public with a fuller front. Me, have a breast augmentation? No way! Wherever did you get that idea? The fact that you can only go up about one cup size is no problem for me. Bigger isn't necessary either. And sure enough, there come the butterflies. The thought of finally being able to go to the beach in a nice bikini this summer! No more fussing in the loo of the beach bar to swap my hated push-up bikini top as quickly as possible for my enormous push-up bra and a shirt! Away with the covered-up tops! With this thought, I fall asleep.
Confusion
However, the euphoria is short-lived. The following morning, on my way to work, I am once again overwhelmed by doubts. As certain as I was this morning when I told Sander I was going to email Eva with the good news, so great is the confusion now. A car journey is usually a good moment to organise my thoughts, but in this case it works against me. I have now passed thirty. Isn't it time I accepted myself as I am? As if bigger breasts would increase my happiness in life. Sander finds me — as domestically as this may sound — beautiful as I am. And as if the outside world is fooled: of course everyone will notice that I've had something done. They'll talk about me. Behind my back. "Have you heard? She always seemed so self-assured, but apparently not." The rest of the drive I'm preoccupied with the main question: why would I do it? Appearance-wise I have nothing else to complain about. I am literally and figuratively comfortable in my own skin, and I'm perfectly aware that my problem is a luxury one. On the other hand, it's something that has been on my mind since puberty. I recall a quote from my diary seventeen years ago: "Marije now has cauliflowers. I have absolutely nothing." And I'm not actually ashamed of it either. Of course I'd prefer bigger ones, but it's not as though I walk around hunched over. And yes, naturally there were insecure moments when I first shared a bed with a new partner, but as time went on that feeling usually passed. In fact, I always prefer to bring it up myself before anyone else has a chance. The result is that jokes are actually often made about my breasts. At a themed party I was expected to come as Pamela Anderson. My outfit — two plastic breasts from the party shop, thick red lipstick, and a too-short skirt — went down a storm, as it happens.
A phone call interrupts my thoughts. My best friend Kim on the line. I tell her about my doubts. "Just do it," she calls down the phone. "People will talk anyway. In a week it'll be about someone else. To me you'll be exactly the same — just with breasts." And suddenly I think: she's right. Do I actually care? I can just go to a consultation, can't I? On arriving at work, I email editor-in-chief Eva. "I've changed my mind. Where and when can I come for an appointment?"