Reduction

Uniqlo shirt
Mango jeans
Mumico espadrilles
Ellen James bag
RayBan sunglasses
Stella & Dot necklace
Stella & Dot rings
Mejuri earrings (similar)
Location: The Manitoba Legislature – Winnipeg, Manitoba

“A man has no idea what a woman feels when it comes to the size and weight of her breasts…” So goes the line from the excerpt on the back of Daniel Pennac’s novel, Journal d’un corps. The premise of the book is a simple one: a man writes a journal about his experience of his physical person, from age three to age eighty-seven. It would be helpful, he thinks, if he were to make his journal public, to allow women to read it first – and he would like to read the equivalent of his own journal, written by a woman, to better understand what he perceives to be the mysteries of life in a female body.

I don’t know about anyone else’s experiences in a female body. But I am well aware of my own, particularly as they relate to my breasts. Daniel Pennac’s narrator expresses feeling encumbered by his genitalia, but he might as well be talking about the mounds of flesh that I’ve been working around and dressing to hide, to some degree, since I was nine-years-old.

Yes, since I was nine. I developed early, and abruptly, long before most of my classmates. But I was more perturbed, at the time, by the hair under my arms than by my breasts, which, in my memories, simply appeared one morning as if they’d always been there. They fit a B cup – large, for a girl still in elementary school, but nothing I couldn’t, and didn’t, grow into in the next few years.

I developed early, and quickly. After seventh grade, I didn’t grow another centimetre in any direction for years. While I didn’t love my body, it was the one I’d been given and I worked with it. The idea of altering it never occurred to me – everything was where it belonged and relatively in proportion, what more could I want?

The answer to that question became suddenly, achingly clear about six months after I started taking birth control at age eighteen. My body changed as much, thanks to that onslaught of hormones, that year as it had when I was nine. Suddenly, none of my bras fit. None of the bras at any store fit. I found myself walking around in a body that felt like it belonged to someone else, with outsized, out of place parts. It took years before I could even articulate the almost unbearable discomfort of existing in that body – both physical, because I’ve dealt with shoulder, back and neck problems for years, and emotional. The idea of actually doing something about it didn’t come until years later. It wasn’t even my own.

The year we got married, Ian injured his hand. He was referred to a plastic surgeon. It was that plastic surgeon who first voiced the idea that I could be a candidate for breast reduction. “Anyone your size who is above a C up could be a candidate,” he said matter-of-factly.

I didn’t think I wanted a breast reduction, at the time. It seemed so extreme, so permanent. Surely there must be an easier way, I thought.

I am, for the record, as of the date I’m writing this, a 30EEE. That isn’t likely immediately obvious – I’ve learned, through trial and error, how to dress to minimize the appearance of my bust as much as humanly possible. I’ve done everything I could imagine to find that easier way and avoid surgery, from changing my diet to taking on an increasingly rigorous exercise routine to stopping birth control. Maybe, I thought, if I could work with my body, it would work with me. Surgery is scary, after all. Things can go wrong. And we internalise the idea that surgically altering our bodies is somehow wrong, or suggestive of vanity.

It is neither. I’ve come to realise that in the past year, as I’ve reached the end of the list of “natural” options for controlling my bra size. We only live once. Anything that impacts the quality of that one life in a negative way is worth correcting, if it can be corrected. To hell with what anyone else thinks about it. It isn’t their life.

Next Monday, I’ll be undergoing breast reduction surgery. When I think about Daniel Pennac’s narrator, and his curiousity about what it feels like to experience life with breasts, all I can say is that for me, it’s been very heavy. Not just literally, although there is a literal aspect to the weight, but figuratively. Emotionally. When I told my mom I’d be undergoing the procedure next week, she joked, “All those bras you’ll have to throw away.”

“I only own two,” I replied. “They’re both more than five years old. Neither one really fits, anyway. They were just the best I could do.”

The best I could do sums up my lived experience in this body. I’ve been made to feel, by the narrow confines of standard sizing, like I am not normal, and thus not worthy of what is available to “everyone else.”

I’m sure I could have sought out bras that fit at specialty stores. I would, no doubt, have paid dearly for them, but they might have made the emotional experience of living with a body part that does not fit my body less quietly traumatic. But it is that internalised trauma, the discouragement and frustration of every bra where I spilled over the cups, every strapless dress I loved but left behind, every oversized sweater that made me look pregnant, that brought me here. And so, ultimately, I’m glad. I needed a very real push to conquer the fear of telling my doctor, “I want breast reduction surgery,” even though I know, in very real medical terms, just how many slices the surgeon will have to make into my body.

The term reduction is an interesting one. It implies taking something away, and leaving behind less. That is, literally, what will happen – parts of me will be removed, and I will be put back together without them. But I will not be reduced by the surgery. Looking forward, I feel like, in many ways, the worst is already over. The worst was acknowledging that I could not reconcile myself with my body. No matter how hard I tried. And I did try, often. The worst was admitting to myself the extreme lengths I was willing to go to in order to resolve that. There is no doubt that the surgery itself will be a brutal physical undertaking. But my experience of my own body has already taught me, time and time again, that temporary physical pain is nothing compared to long term emotional pain.

I will be undergoing a reduction. My breasts, my body, will be literally reduced by a surgeon. But I think that I, as a person, will ultimately be increased. Stronger, more comfortable in my physical self, more in control. Less encumbered, to be sure.  This is, by no means, a decision I’ve taken lightly. It’s been ten years in the making. I know it’s the right one for me, but it may not be the right one for someone else. But if any part of your body is keeping you from feeling entirely like yourself, I strongly encourage you to talk to your doctor about your options. Your feelings, and your experience in your body, whatever it is, is valid. And you deserve the best possible experience of your body in the one life you get, whatever that means.

For me, it means breast reduction surgery. I’ll share more about the process and what it’s like for me when I’m recovering in the coming weeks.

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