Boob job for my wedding!
Friday 3rd April 2009
Twirling round in the wedding shop mirror, I admired my dress from every angle. The champagne-coloured silk clung beautifully to my hips, then fell into a long skirt that trailed elegantly along the ground, while glass beads on the bodice shone under the lights. I loved this dress. It was definitely the one. Except… 'You're right,' I said to Sarah, my maid of honour. 'We're going to have to make an alteration if this dress is going to fit.' Mostly, the gown fitted like a second skin. But there was one problem. Well, two problems to be exact.
My 32A boobs. I held out the baggy fabric at the top of my dress and tutted. 'Still,' I said brightly. 'This can be easily fixed.' A bit of readjustment here, a few stitches there and a bit of hoiking everything up, and the dress would be a perfect fit. But it wasn't my gown I was talking about changing. It was my boobs. I wanted a boob job to make my wedding dress fit.
Sounds drastic, right? You bet. I never thought I'd have surgery, let alone 17 days before my wedding, but I was beyond desperate. When my partner, Barry, 40, had proposed back in August 2007, I'd been the proud owner of a perky pair of 32DDs. We'd been together four years, had Connor, then 2, and I was six months pregnant with our second. Once our son, Tyler, was born in November 2007, I'd thrown myself into planning the wedding. We'd set the date for July 12th, booked Mains Castle in Dundee, and best of all, I'd chosen my dress. As soon as I'd seen it, I'd fallen in love, and when I'd tried it on for the first time, it had fitted perfectly. 'You're gorgeous,' Sarah had gasped. 'It's stunning,' I'd beamed. I'd arranged the flowers and bought a cute cream outfit for Tyler and a kilt for Connor. Then I'd picked burgundy and cream dresses for my bridesmaids, Sarah, Crystallee and Carla. Everything was going to be perfect. Until…
At the beginning of June, Tyler stopped breastfeeding. Within a couple of days, my boobs had completely disappeared. For the first time since I was a kid, I was flat as a pancake. Hanging limply, my breasts were like deflated balloons. I wasn't surprised when I tried my dress on and found I could peer straight down the front of the thing. 'We won't be able to adjust it,' the shop assistant frowned, as I stared in the mirror, deflated, literally. 'It'll ruin the line of the dress and completely change its shape.' 'You could choose another dress,' Sarah suggested. 'No way,' I replied. It was this dress or no dress. I tried everything from chicken fillets to balled-up socks to pad out my flat chest, but nothing worked. So when I got home, I told Barry I wanted a boob job.
'You're beautiful as you are,' he protested. 'Plus, it's just four weeks until the wedding. What if something goes wrong?' 'At least let me look into it,' I said. Reluctantly, he agreed, and I called a clinic called the Hospital Group in Glasgow. 'If you can come for your consultation on the 17 June and get the all-clear, we can fit you in on 25 June for the operation,' I was told. That was two weeks and three days before my big day. 'Book me in,' I said. At £3,800, it certainly wasn't cheap, but I had savings, and if ever there was a rainy day, this was it. At the consultation, I told the surgeon I wanted to be a D cup. 'It may have to be a bit bigger to make up for the shape you lost during breastfeeding,' he said. The following week, I was wheeled into theatre. With Barry looking after the kids, I was alone when I came round that day at 3pm. Pain shot through my chest, but as I ran my hands over my pert new bumps, I was thrilled. 'I hope it was worth it,' Barry said, when he saw me the next day.
It was another week before I could try on my dress. Just nine days before the wedding. As Sarah laced up the corset, I was too scared to look. I'd had major surgery to be able to wear this dress. What if it still didn't fit? 'Perfect,' she said. As I opened my eyes, I could see she was telling the truth. The dress fitted a treat and I finally had the figure I wanted. Just in the nick of time, too. Nine days later, my dad, Alan Fraser, 44, walked me down the aisle. As Barry and I exchanged our vows, I still had a few aches and pains, but as we danced to Aerosmith's I Don't Want To Miss A Thing, I had no regrets. And later on that night, I had no
qualms about stripping off for my new hubby. Since the wedding, I've found out that, to create the shape I wanted, the surgeon actually made me a 32F. But I'm more than happy with the result. You only have to look at my smile on the wedding photos to see just how happy.