Not What Nature Intended

A couple of years before, I had lost my darling Mum. She had been unwell for a while but had died suddenly of a brain haemorrhage. Completely devastating as it is when we lose a parent, in time, as the distress of the loss passes, it makes us search within ourselves for who we really are. In the death of my Mum my main mentor had gone and the person who breathed life into me had left me. It made me consider what I really wanted and, latterly with my divorce and of course the loss of my husband, it made me think that we do not have control over the longevity of those we love, but we do of our destiny and of our personal life journey. In short, it made me consider what I really wanted in life. I became a changed person, more independent and, perhaps more determined. My new partner, also a determined individual, was a person who challenged thoughts and decisions and we had many a friendly debate over my boobs. He clearly liked them. I clearly did not. So what was the problem? Why couldn’t I just relax, enjoy what nature had given me, forget about the imperfections and live life to the full in the joy of being healthy, young and fit. He was absolutely right but I was equally determined that I did not like what I had and the debates continued. I was not comfortable. The debates continued for nearly 18 months. Neither of us able to persuade the other but both determined to do so. I became obsessed, like I had never been before; reading magazine features, watching every programme I could on the subject, speaking with friends to gauge reactions and feelings towards the subject. In short, I was a woman possessed. My new approach to my life and my new man had given me ‘permission’ to debate the topic and to talk about it openly. He had granted me a voice, which I aired at every possible opportunity. My new man (so different to my ex-husband), felt that I was every inch his equal and so I was invited to debate the topic over and over again. Until the night we were having another friendly debate about my breasts and he just said, “If you want to have surgery, what is stopping you, you are a grown woman, who has money and an independent brain. If you want to do it you have my blessing.” It was the ‘permission’ I had been seeking all of my life so far. It was all I needed to hear. I knew at that very moment that I was going to have surgery, whatever the cost, whatever the consequence and whatever the reaction it would promote. In short, I had finally, at 37, made the decision.