By Margarete Lloyd. Graphic By Ian Houghton

Breasts are funny, beautiful, weird, sexy. My breasts used to be quite large, but as I’m typing this, my arms aren’t bumping into them, my back isn’t weighed down by them, and people aren’t staring at them.
About a month ago, I had breast reduction surgery. I’m going to detail the surgery and the recovery process, and cover a small amount of philosophy about accepting your body. I’ll try not to whinge too much, but I can’t guarantee that, as I am still “sloughing” (I will explain further, oh boy, it’s gross) and taking Oxycodon (see: hillbilly heroin).
I had many qualms about changing my breasts. I used to think that it would be an act of hate towards my body. How massively flawed I must be, if I can’t accept myself for who I am. But for me, having large breasts was getting in the way. Despite my frame (I have a little bit of chub, but I’m a size 10), I couldn’t fit into dresses. I couldn’t buy bras that fit, except at specialty stores where they cost upwards of $150 (10Gs will do that). I couldn’t run without hurting my chest. In summer, my breasts would sweat and chafe. Taking off my bra to shower left my ridiculously pendulous breasts hanging, pulling at my skin, hurting my neck. Reduction was an act of love for me: I don’t like it, I’m going to change it, and live a nicer life.
Most of my thoughts centred around what having new, little breasts would be like. I imagined jogging and buying $15 bras. I gave little thought to the actual surgery, or the recovery. It’s actually a big deal. I didn’t realise how disgusting it would be, or how much time it would take for me to heal.
My surgeon worked with the LeJour method, which is rather modern and creates fewer scars. The surgery takes a few hours, and then the patient should stay in hospital for three or four nights. I ended up staying for two, because I was fine, but also because hospital is boring as hell. Over the next week, the patient should be bedridden except for the least taxing of tasks, and then over the next six months, the wounds gradually heal.
I had never been admitted to hospital before, so this was a shiny new thing to me. As soon as my clothes were stored away and I was wearing only a flimsy gown, paper slippers and a dashing shower cap, I was a Patient. I was part and parcel of the hospital. Because of the lack of bra, my breasts were hurting, and they looked so large beneath the gown that I just wanted them gone. I felt no attachment to them, no love for them.
I had a general anaesthetic, which I’ve never had before. It was quite nice, like falling asleep. Plus they put a warm blanket on you.
The surgery (a similar surgery is on YouTube, if you care to gross yourself out) starts with a ‘keyhole’ cut. The skin is peeled off from inside this shape, and excess breast tissue is sliced up and removed. At this point there is a lot of blood and fat around the place. The nipple stays attached, but is lifted up to fit into the circle in the keyhole. The surgeon then stitches around the areola, and vertically down the breast. Voila.
I woke up in a complete daze. I was really, really itchy, all over. The night was spent being utterly confused. I wasn’t sure if I’d had my surgery or not, which sounds stupid, but it’s true. I couldn’t move. My chest was covered in dressings, which were holding my breasts in place. A tube came out of each breast, each leading to a draining bag full of my excess blood. I was being fed through an IV tube in my hand. I had a little oxygen tube in my nose. I needed to scratch my face, but above all, I needed to pee.
The nurses woke me up every couple of hours to take my blood pressure and feed me painkillers. This went on for a boring amount of time, probably about fifteen hours. By then I developed some coherency and was able to ask the nurses to help me to the bathroom. I’d like to say that using a toilet made me feel better, but looking at myself in the mirror over the sink disgusted me: my hair was sweaty, my skin greyish, my expression slack. I had to carry my sacks of blood around with me. One of the drainage tubes was on a raw nerve, and kept pressing against it.
The second day in hospital was the day for visitors – Mum, Sarah, my aunty and uncle, Joseph – and I felt bad for being dull and just lying there. I would perk up for about ten minutes and then crash again. The nurses wouldn’t answer the fucking buzzer, so Sarah helped me to the bathroom. There’s nothing quite as loving as holding your best friend’s blood sacks while she urinates. Thanks, dude.
On the third day, the nurse from my surgery came to take off my dressings. I could have cried. It was a weird kind of joy, looking down at puckered, bloody, bruised, stitched, uneven breasts and thinking, “YES! They’re tiny!”  Right then I couldn’t really judge how they were doing, but the nurse assured me that they looked perfectly fine.
I felt better and went home, still on tonnes of painkillers, and still somewhat bandaged up. When it was time to change the dressings, I got a good look at myself, standing up in front of a full-length mirror. I was yellow, red, blue and purple, and the stitch line was a gross, jagged black, covered in my dried blood. My breasts, now only a D cup, were so hard that they stood up and out, a bit like pornstar boobs. The reason that they were so hard was a combination of swelling and fat necrosis. When the breast is cut open and reattached, some fat is cut off from its blood supply, and dies. At the nurse’s insistence, I massaged them, and watched the dead fat ooze out through the scar line. It looked like cooking oil.
The gross stuff doesn’t end there, but I promise that this has a happy ending. Now that some time has passed, my breasts have gone quite soft, and only have the occasional pocket of fat necrosis. The stitches are now lying flat, creating a smooth line around my areola and down my breasts –  that is, until the end of the line, where there is some slough. Slough is dead, wet skin. I have to rub it with Betadine and wait for it to flake off. Below that, there is a small lobe of skin under each of my breasts – about the size of an earlobe, it consists of excess skin and will heal flat over the next few months. They kind of freak me out, so I avoid looking at the lobes.
Here is my happy ending: I have small breasts. They fit onto my body shape quite naturally. My neck and back are hurting temporarily as I am standing up straight for the first time. About an inch and a half under my lobes, far below my new breasts, is the line where my old bras used to sit. That bit of skin feels baby-like and wonderful. I am all new. My clothes fit much better, and people don’t stare at me as I walk down the street. When I’m introduced to new people, there is no more quick eye-flicker down to my chest. I am heartily looking forward to being fully recovered, when I can finally lift heavy things and exercise. These few months will be disgusting and inconvenient, but for me, the reward at the end is completely worthwhile.