“It’s a toss-up between an Aga or boobs”. The consultant surgeon (I will call him NP) looks across the desk at me, his middle-aged patient, but is not fazed. “Have you ever had an Aga?” he retorts. I explain that I have, and closing my file in front of him, he tells me that that is surely it then. No contest. An Aga it must be. I like this man immediately and if I am going to get a new bosom, I want him to do the job.
But what drives a reasonably attractive, reasonably sane, reasonably intelligent 57-year-old grandmother to the extreme measures of breast enlargement surgery? I explain to NP that a generous bust is a missing component of my nurturing personality and my adult years have been spent with a chest identity crisis. “Breast dysphoria,” he interjects, and through him I realise that it is a recognised condition. Having inherited a small amount of money I have done the sensible thing in paying off my mortgage, but I long to indulge in one of two desires. Should it be the Aga that my recently acquired cottage cries out for, or should I have the bust that I crave?
NP has all the right credentials and has been recommended to me by a former patient who is lavish in her praise. This is reassuring because there are far too many horror stories. My own prejudiced preconception is that a plastic surgeon will operate on anyone as long as he or she is willing to part with the required megabucks. It soon becomes apparent that NP needs convincing that the surgery is right for me both physically and psychologically.
I no longer have a husband or a lover in my life; my three children are grown up, and my last parent died recently. For the first time I am free of constraints. I am at liberty to be who I want to be; to do what I want to do. A new bosom seems to be the ideal gift to myself as I enter this new phase. I like to think that it is not mere vanity. If it was, I would be opting for a tummy tuck. Nor do I want the Hello! celebrity inflated beach-balls or the pert-poke-your-eyes-out look. Cuddly is more my thing.
I announce my intention to my offspring, who can’t resist calling me a right tit and other inane comments that pass for normal banter in our family. My son quietly writes me off as terminally barking, but the girls seem to be mildly impressed.
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Initially, friends are disbelieving, but most offer support when they realise that I am serious. My sister looks horrified, but I suspect that she was the person who nobbled my rightful share of breast in the first place.
To my delight I discover that NP holds a clinic near my home. I believe that when you are following the right path in life, doors open and progress is made easier. My younger daughter insists that this does not extend to boob jobs, but I remain convinced. I read it as a sign. So far, so good.
NP examines me and writes “Grade 1 ptosis” on the page. I know from the information leaflet that this is jargon for sag. I am not sure if grade one is just the beginning, or if I have achieved the maximum. I suspect that it is the former because one of the advantages of being bosomly challenged is that there is not a lot to droop. This will all change if I get larger.
He then draws three sketches of possible post-augmentation ptosis. The worst outcome is that I end up with the layered — or double-boob — look. This happens when the silicone remains high, with the original flesh sagging in a separate bosom below. I am not too keen on that option; in fact I would go a long way to avoid it, but it is a possibility that I need to face. This area of concern is more relevant for me than for younger candidates for whom the prospect of pendulous breasts is a distant reality. Gravity has already got me firmly (or not so firmly) in its grasp with an imminent flesh- laden landing on the South Pole.
If I proceed, I will need to specify what size I would like to be. I decide to have a girlie day’s shopping in London with my elder daughter. Together we trawl the revamped underwear department at Peter Jones examining the various sizings like a couple of pervs. One step up to a 36C hardly seems worth the trouble, so I invest in a D-cup. Regressing to giggly teenagers, we rush back home and stuff the black silky number with old tights. Perfect.
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I ring NP’s secretary and talk about dates. He is going on holiday, and then a lecture tour, but he can fit me on a list in five weeks. I am the type that faints at the sight of a needle, so surgery is anathema. I make an excuse about needing to consult my diary, which gives me breathing time to think again. But it is no good; I know that I have to go ahead or I will always regret it. I ring back immediately and am so nervous that I gabble almost incoherently. Then it is done, and I am booked in for the following month.
I can now tell you from experience that there is a conspiracy of silence over breast augmentation surgery. Not many women will admit to having had their boobs enlarged, reduced, tweaked or lifted, so the reality of just how much it hurts remains largely unknown.
In the days and weeks after my return from hospital, my children and close friends ring frequently for news of my recovery. I sense that I am becoming a drag as I continue, long and loudly, to tell them that it hurts, but I am in too much discomfort to pretend otherwise and they can hear it in my voice. My sense of humour, which has carried me through most events in my life, deserts me and I am in danger of becoming a bore. A bore with big breasts, but a bore nonetheless.
Six weeks further on and the stitches are out, there is virtually no pain and I am adjusting well to my new, larger, identity. It feels good; a coming home to the person that I was always meant to be.
In a lingerie shop I am measured professionally and am slightly larger than expected. Was there a special offer on silicone gel that week? If so, I am thrilled with my bargain buy.
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The lacy number I choose does not have my size on display, so I ambush an assistant. “You see, I need a double-D,” I confide in the loudest whisper you have ever heard.
As I walk out with a receipt worthy of a second mortgage, I can’t help glancing up the High Street. I am convinced that there’s an Aga showroom near the car park. After all, there is no harm in having a look.
WE CAN’T ALL BE UPFRONT
Dr Adam Searle, president of the British Association of Aesthetic Plastic Surgeons, estimates that 50 per cent of his patients are advised against surgery for the following reasons: