Jacky Part 2: From A to C

In the second part of Jacky's breast augmentation story, she documents the weeks following her surgery at Blooming Plastic Surgery. She shares her experience of recovery — the swelling, discomfort, and gradual reveal of results — and discusses what support she received from the team. Her candid account of the post-operative period provides valuable insight for anyone curious about what the weeks after breast augmentation surgery really look like in practice.

The Operation

Together, Sander and I stare at my well-filled bra. This time it is not the familiar padded cups, air cushions, or chicken fillets that are concealing the sorry truth. From a distance it looks quite substantial. Really rather large, actually. Of course. I turn in a circle in front of the mirror. Yes, I could easily head out into town wearing this. That is, until this illusion fails to hold up under an unexpected movement. Three hundred grams of raw mince — half-and-half — exits my black HEMA bra in a most unglamorous fashion. What remains is my miserable A-cup. And thoroughly unpleasant at that.

The Best

The bra full of mince has everything to do with my first visit to Blooming clinic the day before. Following my intake appointment with practice manager Yamuna Martens, this is the first time I meet plastic surgeon Paris Melis in person. Exciting — because if I do indeed go ahead with my advanced plans for a breast augmentation, he is the one who will be operating on me. It is therefore important that there is a connection and that he comes across as skilled and trustworthy. What I know about Dr. Melis up to that point is that he works as a plastic surgeon at the Red Cross Hospital in Beverwijk and started this private clinic two years ago together with five colleagues. Dr. Melis is the specialist within the group for aesthetic and reconstructive surgery of the breasts and face. I also know that the plastic surgeons at the clinic were named the best in the country by the weekly magazine Elsevier for the fourth consecutive year last year. The group performs the larger operations at the Beverwijk hospital, but the consulting rooms are located at the elegant Duinlust country estate in Overveen.

The Consultation

We sit in a large, bright consulting room belonging to Dr. Melis. He is the type of Jan van der Woude from Medisch Centrum West — the kind of doctor by whom you immediately want to be operated on: trustworthy, skilled, calm. It is impossible that he would make a mess of anything. I stand before him and look in the mirror. Feeling somewhat self-conscious, I slide one sample implant after another — even the word alone — into a fitting bra. Yamuna watches from a distance with a reassuring look. 240cc, 300cc, 320cc. Actually I am already more than satisfied with the first size. 'I really don't want those awful, excessive breasts,' I say. 'This seems fine to me. I was thinking of a large B or a small C. I'll end up there, won't I? Fortunately Dr. Melis is used to nervous prospective patients. It is better not to speak in terms of cup sizes ('Works out differently on every body'), but in terms of the number of cc's, he explains, as he measures my breasts with a ruler. According to him, 280 cc or 300 cc — given my height (1.75m), weight (60 kg), and build (athletic with curves) — would suit me well. 'Everything seems a lot because you currently have so little, but with a T-shirt on it will not be much more than the push-up bra you are wearing now.' I put the 300cc implant back into the bra, take it out again and transfer it from one hand to the other and back again. The idea that this 'jelly thing' could become my new breast is strange. But actually also very pleasant. And if Dr. Melis says that I can perfectly well have this size, because it suits my body well and is not excessive, who am I to argue? The rest of the conversation we discuss the choice of the right implant (I will receive round rather than teardrop-shaped ones), the placement (half beneath the chest muscle), and my continuing doubts. At the door I ask once more whether 300cc really is not too large. 'You are always welcome to call or come back if you have doubts,' says Dr. Melis. 'And otherwise you can buy 300 grams of mince, put it in your bra, and have another look.' After more than thirty years I have had more than enough of my A-cup. It is up to me and not my surroundings — who may well take a dim view of it — to choose a breast augmentation. The conversation with Dr. Melis gives me the confidence to actually take the step now. The next day I drive to the Red Cross Hospital in Beverwijk to sort out my admission paperwork and to definitively confirm the appointment. I'm getting breasts!

The Waiting Period

During the waiting period leading up to the operation — approximately three months — I alternately feel anxious and joyful. This is probably because I am suddenly oversensitive to everything relating to breasts. At work I stumble into the middle of a conversation between two colleagues by the coffee machine: 'Do you know what's worse than fake breasts? A Tupperware box, hahaha.' When I walk into the local snack bar a week later, my eye falls on a piece in Revu in which a rapper talks about his new hit, which is an indictment of the plastic society. 'We should finally learn to accept ourselves in 2010,' he believes. Irritating. Because I have only told a few close friends about my breast augmentation, for the most part I cannot discuss my uncertainties with anyone. This is particularly difficult as the operation draws nearer, because the important choice I have made is on my mind all day. About two weeks before the operation, I text Yamuna from Blooming clinic (then called Kliniek Bloemingdael) one more time with my doubts. The following day I have a telephone appointment with Dr. Melis, who reassures me within two sentences. 'It really won't look excessive. During the operation I will certainly take another look at what the best size is.' But the nicest I'm-going-to-do-it-after-all moment remains my parents' reaction. Sex was never discussed in the village where I grew up — and therefore at home — let alone would you walk into the bathroom while another family member was showering. But my upcoming breast augmentation (referred to in family circles as 'The Operation' as a matter of course) receives a perfectly normal response from both my father and mother. Dad: 'I completely understand that it would be nice to be able to wear a pretty top in summer.' Mum sends a gift voucher for a lingerie set from Marlies Dekkers. 'Good luck with the operation. I'm sure it will turn out beautifully!'

D-Day

The evening before the operation, Sander quickly grabs the camera. For posterity. Sweet, but no idea which future generations will actually want to see this. That doesn't concern Sander: every angle of my small breasts gets documented. This turns out not to be the last photo Sander takes. When we arrive at the hospital early the next morning, he really gets going: my single(!)room, just the bed, me on the bed, me while getting changed, the nurses — everything and everyone gets photographed. Even the enormous 'hospital gauze knickers' are immortalised. I let him get on with it. This is not only nerve-wracking for me. At exactly 08.30 Dr. Melis appears. He is as relaxed as always — endures Sander's photo session with patience — and that puts me at ease too. Using a thick marker, he marks the location where the implants are to go. 'It really won't look excessive, will it?' I ask again. 'No,' he says. 'And will I be happy afterwards?' I squeak. 'Very happy. I'll see you upstairs in the operating theatre shortly.' After that it moves quickly. Downstairs I say goodbye to Sander and am taken up by bed. There I first receive a drip ('Does that hurt?') and then continue towards the operating theatre, where the anaesthetist appears at my bedside ('Will I fall asleep quickly?'). Strangely enough, I don't look at my small breasts anymore. I have probably seen enough of them over the past thirty years. The last thing I remember is making a bad joke about Michael Jackson's personal physician. Hell A few hours later I wake up. Apparently I am in the recovery room, because it is busy around me. Nurses are attending to a woman who has just given birth, with her baby, next to me. A little further along, a girl is crying. A mother sits at the head of her son's bed, stroking his hair. I feel groggy. Christ. I try to ask for water. But making contact is not so easy when you have just come out of anaesthesia. All that comes out of my mouth is a faint mumble. Fortunately, after a quarter of an hour I am taken to my own room, where Sander and Dr. Melis are talking. 'Hey darling,' says Sander with relief as he takes my hand. 'Everything went well, didn't it?' Yes, I nod weakly. Dr. Melis says it all looks absolutely wonderful. 'But you will certainly be in some discomfort over the coming days. You have strong muscles; I had to pull quite hard.' Ouch. A few minutes later Sander and I welcome the new breasts together. As the blanket goes up, I see two pieces of tape. One at the top, one at the bottom. Between them hang (well, stand — what swelling!) two beautiful, round breasts. Each 280 cc. I do not cry at that moment, because strangely enough it immediately feels completely normal and familiar. 'Just right, isn't it,' I say. Sander nods and gets back to work with his Hasselblad. My new breasts are christened 'the two little nuns'. So much for the euphoria. Because after a few hours it begins. Pain. Unbelievable, barely tolerable pain. Beforehand I had heard that it feels as though a lorry has driven over you. That comparison holds. Once the anaesthesia has completely worn off, I feel ab-so-lute-ly dreadful. Every movement I make causes agonising pain throughout my entire chest area. Reaching for my glass. Ouch. Adjusting my pillow. Ouch. Even lying still and watching television is impossible. It feels as though everything has been torn open and as though I am being pulled from all sides the moment I dare to move at all. Beside my bed I watch as the drains, which emerge somewhere from the side of my new acquisitions, do their work. Both bottles slowly fill with wound fluid. It makes me feel nauseous. I press the call button a hundred times for painkillers, for someone to adjust my pillow, for a trip to the toilet. I feel like the drama queen of the ward, but I couldn't care less; I need all the help I can get. Besides, I am a medical marvel: my muscles were abnormally tight — Dr. Melis said so himself. I press the button again, ouch, to the great annoyance of the nursing staff. 'I will ask whether we are allowed to give you something else, but you have actually reached your limit with painkillers.' When my mother comes to visit later, I cry my eyes out. In the evening I am alone for the first time. Mum has gone home. Sander has gone home. And I think even the nurses have gone home. I want to go home too. But I have to stay. What a misery. My hair is tickling my neck. I don't have a hair tie. Everything hurts. But: I have them. Round, firm, 280 cc. And with that thought I eventually fall into a restless, dreamless sleep. On my back. You can read the next and final instalment here.