It all started with a mole.
During my checkup last year, my
doctor noticed a mole that looked a little smudged. She removed it.
Just to be on the safe side, she referred me to a dermatologist to
have him look at my other moles.
I have a lot of these “beauty
spots”-- my preferred term. Under the unforgiving fluorescent light
of the dermatologist's office, I had to strip completely from head to
toe while he used a giant magnifying glass, lit with yet another
fluorescent light, to scrutinize every inch of my skin.
“You know this is a woman's worst
nightmare,” I said to him.
“Well, at least you shaved your
legs,” he said with a pinched little smile. “So we're good.”
Bitch, I thought to myself.
He then found my birthmark, at
my hairline. I was told to remove it when I was 13, but at that point
in my life I had seen too many milk cartons with photos of missing
children on them. The usual identifier? A birthmark. I thought it
best to keep mine, lest I be kidnapped at some point and have nothing
special about me for my mom and the police to write on a milk carton.
That was then. Now that I am a mother
of three pushing 40, I can only dream about being kidnapped. It
was time for the birthmark to go.
The thing exceeded the diameter of what
was removable in a dermatologist's office. He said I'd have to see a
plastic surgeon.
I'm going to pause here for a personal history moment.
I come from Vancouver Island, where
many people are fans of the “natural” or “outdoorsy” look.
Mussed hair, over-sized second-hand sweaters over scruffy jeans--it's a look
that is carefully contrived to show you don't give a shit about
the dull, conventional ways that employed people dress. Here in
Toronto this look is called “disheveled hippie” or even
“depressed halfway-house dweller.”
But I was brought up to fiercely
protect the natural look. I was weaned on Free To Be You And Me
and The Paper Bag Princess. I
came of age reading Our Bodies Ourselves at Lilith Fair.
All the self-acceptance and feminism,
however, couldn't crush my vanity.
The plastic surgeon's office was the
forbidden fruit.
I'm sure some of his patients were the
real deal – people who'd had unfortunate, disfiguring accidents or
needed reconstructive surgery after a mastectomy.
But not the couple with
identical facelifts sitting next to me. Their
eyebrows were arched in an aloof, mildly curious way that remained
unchanged whether they were reading magazines or talking to each
other.
The doctor's assistant came out and
greeted them. They were waiting to take their friend home.
“Is she rejuvinated?” asked the
woman, her brow still immobile but her eyes wild with enthusiasm.
This was place where
shallow, self-absorbed, bored people could cater to their vain whims.
I felt right at home. You didn't even
need the 20 large in your pocket. All you had to do was drain your
savings and apply for a Capital One card.
It was okay to be selfish here, to take a risk and make a big change. And as
such it was a terribly exciting place to be.
Upon seeing the surgeon, he said I
should indeed have the disagreeable spot removed. Seven little
stitches along the hairline. “It will give you a slight temporal
lift,” he said. It was covered under OHIP.
He glanced at my intake form.
“Other than this, you are a healthy,
38-year-old woman?” There it was. A slight emphasis on that
evil number, 38. An invitation to enhancement.
“Yes,” I said, beginning to
perspire a little. “I am. Healthy.”
“Alright, if there's anything else I
can do for you, let me know.”
The surgeon smiled. It was a warm,
friendly, comforting smile. A new, perfect body seemed so entirely
possible.
Three weeks later I found myself deep
into a mental rabbit hole at JustBreastImplants.com. Women were
talking saline and silicone like guys talk V-6 and V-8 engines.
“Just replaced my 350cc's with 750s,”
wrote one woman. “Barely made it to the big girls' club, but I
did!”
“Couldn't wait for my 1000's!”
enthused another. “They're much heavier than my 650s. I need to
wear support 24/7.”
“I can't wait for a reason
to need a bra 24/7,” gushed another woman.
But for every
enthusiastic new recipient, there were several posts from women whose
surgery wasn't quite right. One boob bigger than the other, or
hanging differently, or it leaked, or they got the wrong size
implant, or there was something called a capsular contracture.
(Google it.)
“Having issues shaving my armpits,”
wrote someone called Leesa. “The implant is still so high and in
the way.”
Tummy tuck recipients needed to take
several weeks off from any lifting or driving, and had tubes in them
after surgery to drain the fluid that accumulates after you're
flayed.
How did they do it? How do women with
careers and families have the time for elective surgery?
I was pondering this question one
evening in the bathroom. I had just finished having a shower when my
five-year-old barged in, unannounced and unapologetic.
“Um, may I have some privacy please?”
I said. All the plastic surgery thoughts were having an effect on my
self-esteem.
My daughter looked me over and started
to giggle.
“What?” I said, feeling a little
more self-conscious than usual.
“I love your boobies, Mama,” she
said. “They're so silly. They look like googly-eyes.”
I still can't figure out why I took it
as a compliment, but I did.
