by Ms. Gonzo, Gonzo Today Contributor
Recently, my inbox contained a health site talking about getting breast implants at the age of 68 (not because of cancer). Bless their hearts but getting implants at the age of 27 was not one of my brighter ideas. At that age, I adored Colette, Virginia Woolf and other heady women that might have frowned at my decision, but then again, Colette was an actress. She might have understood. Gloria Steinem, not so much.
The long journey down this road of slice and dice began after the birth of my first baby. Until then I was happy with the body Nature blessed me with and didn’t give much thought to the size of my bosom. Then I became pregnant and swelled to a D cup. After I stopped nursing they shrunk to an A- and headed south.
Limp boobs is probably not an issue for most women, but at that time my job description was singer/entertainer and I was touring all over the world with big venue acts, singing on The Tonight Show etc. We’re talking Prince Albert Hall. I’d bet six Darvocet that a big percentage of women in show biz do some sort of body work. For the record, implants are just one of those things I would tell my younger self not to do. That girl was in another zeitgeist from the one I live in as I write this.
The first meeting with my Beverly Hills plastic surgeon, Dr. Swank, was innocent enough. My husband (who was very supportive of this effort) and I looked at pictures. The scarring didn’t look too bad. “Ze pain,” he assured me in a Lebanese accent, “is not really all zat bad.”
I love my plastic surgeon, I really do, but he doesn’t know a Tramadol tit about pain. The pain after my first implant surgery was excruciating. I chewed on nails.
But time passed and I healed, filing, but not forgetting the pain. I eventually liked the results in my mirror. Later, there was an inferno surrounding silicone implants. What if my 14-year-old implants were wearing out or even worse: leaking? I ran to my Swank.
A plastic surgeon’s waiting room is a great place to people watch, especially in Beverly Hills. On this repeat visit, I sat in the waiting room and like everyone else in the room I tried to discreetly check out the other patients. People with recent nose jobs were easy to spot, but lipo’s and implanters were a little harder to discern.
My mindless musings came to a halt when in walked the largest pair of bazookas I’d ever seen in the flesh. All eyes riveted to a woman with 40XXX’s and her entourage of three, one being a large guarding-type male completing the trifecta.
These trophies were about to explode from a tight little white shirt with huge silk screened bright red lips strategically placed over the nipple area. A mane of bleach fried hair flowed to below a tiny waist, not far above the bottom hem of hip hugging short shorts as the tits toddled through the room on 3-inch heels. The woman’s ability to balance this top-heavy load on spikes was quite impressive. Only after digesting all of this did I focus on her face or rather the drawing of a face, rounding out her macabre ensemble. Isis gone berserk.
No judging here. I was an actress wearing a lot of crazy costumes before the singing career. After all, we were all in the same room. But this room was knocked utterly speechless at being forced to face an extreme example of what some of us, albeit to a lesser degree, were doing to ourselves.
Among implanters, there is a hierarchy of sorts. Some of us think we are making ourselves look normal, however crazy that may seem to some for intelligent females to let themselves be cut in the name of normalcy. But the others, who don’t subscribe to our definition of normal like Ms. 40XXX, are freaks. Okay, I judged.
Ms. Divinely was whisked ahead of us normal types. She was there for her follow up photo for Swanky’s picture file. Sparks flew in the waiting room after her grand exit and almost in unison we all squawked, “Who was she?”
“That,” replied the receptionist with a hint of pride, “was the cover of Penthouse last month.”
Quickly my thoughts crystallized on the five digit check she’d received, which more than paid for her surgery and maybe six months’ rent to boot, plus more offers leading to more big checks.
For a split second I wondered how much human skin could be stretched, but the downside would be finding the funds for an entire new wardrobe, not to mention the shock to my two young daughters and the therapy bills that would follow. I’d probably have to find a whole new circle of friends and most likely family.
My turn in the inner sanctum finally came and as I walked in Dr. Swank said, “Good zang you came in now. You can remove zese painful rocks and put in zese nice soft saline bags and make deadline for ze class action lawsuit.”
The last point caught my attention. Better do it soon and not only for the medical reasons. Now I had a deadline. Of course, this was the guy that put these rocks in me in the first place, but I didn’t dwell on that as I admired the photo on his desk of the three beautiful girls he’d fathered since I last saw him. I wondered briefly if he’d ever recommend implants to his girls for esthetic reasons. I knew I wouldn’t to mine. Ever.
“What about the pain?” I asked almost as an afterthought, dredging up that old file. “Last time I was in the hospital. This time we’re doing it in your office.”
“Oh, zat’s not a problem. You will be asleep and not feel a zang.”
Wrong. I was awake and miserable through my whole procedure. The next few days were a total blur, other than my angel of mercy friend who hovered over me muttering things about lawyers and “Sue the bastard” or “Drink this tea.”
The topper came when the Tylenol-3 prescription ran out the second day. Dr. Swank refused a refill. “Get Tylenol” his nurse said. What? No codeine? This pain and the price I paid deserved at least one refill. Murderous musings surfaced. I bet Ms. Penthouse got all the pills she wanted.
Luckily, I had a couple pain pills left over from an old dental problem that I was saving for an emergency. So, I boarded a plane home, cursing Swanky under my breath.
Two weeks later I rushed to a local Doctor because I developed an infection in my stitches. This Doctor was a small-town guy, not a paranoid Beverly Hills plastic surgeon and he showed me great sympathy, although I detected a little fear at the sight of my exploding breasts. He was a young General Practitioner. I seriously doubt anything like this was covered during his residency at medical school.
This man, sent to me from the Goddess, whether it was out of disgust or compassion, prescribed 20 Tylenol-3 with a refill. Hallelujah!
Who was I to question the Doctor?
August 31, 2021