A shift in the wives’ club is in effect, and Janet is leading it.
Janet has always led it—the wives’ club—but I just need to be clear that she is responsible for the shift as well. She is a strong personality, maybe. Or maybe more confident than the rest of us. Maybe confidence, in women, is stored in the breasts. I am still working with that assumption. The point is, Janet goes after what she wants.
And today she wanted a friend to accompany her to her consultations.
Consultations, as in more than one. Plural.
Janet is shopping.
“Nothing is more important a factor than the right doctor.”
—Janet’s boob wisdom.
Also, “Clear your schedule.”
—Janet’s way of inviting me.
I am the accompanying friend. First thoughts, of course: why me? Have I appeared too curious recently? Did I sparkle and pop throughout the boob replacement conversation as opposed to my more normal nods and grunts as I try to look engaged above the drone of my own monologue? Is it that I don’t frown unwillingly anymore? Has she noticed this small improvement? Are we kindred spirits now, chasing our youth and sexualities backwards through time? Janet picked me. There must be a reason. Janet has never picked me for any of her special interest outings.
Seven. Seven doctors Janet scheduled for consultation meetings spaced each an hour apart. In one office alone she spoke to three of them. She is like a speed dater, asking each of them their hopes and dreams for her breasts and how they might accomplish such and then gliding into experience, philosophy, expectations. In her purse Janet carries pictures of the hopes and dreams that she intends one lucky doctor to fall in line with. The hope and dream is Pamela Anderson, circa 2000. With each new doctor, Janet pulls out pictures of Pamela Anderson. She says, “Not this Pamela, but this one,” as she shows the first picture, and then the second. Janet lists the subtleties between the two. In the first, Pamela looks like she’s still working towards something. In the second photo, Pamela is wearing white and heavy lip liner. Her breasts spill out generously, evenly, impervious to gravity, flaws, and, most importantly, nature. Pamela appears to have found what she was looking for, boob-wise.
We are each of us looking for something, boob-wise. Men are looking for it in women. Women are looking for it in themselves, in other women, in doctor’s offices. We are heavily concerned with boobs, and if we must buy them, then Janet is right—it is all in the doctor.
And so Janet pursues it with precision. She speaks with clipped, sure words; a cosmetic perfectionist.
Each doctor would study the Pamelas with reverence, and then to each, Janet would reiterate, “Not Baywatch Pamela,” and flash the first photo again to show what she meant. Then Baywatch Pamela would be sort of dismissed with a common sniff of doctor and patient in unison. Baywatch Pamela is the old guard. Hard, uneven, torpedo-shaped boobs are the old guard. They are early life-forms in the evolutionary history of cosmetically enhanced breasts, barely a step above tissue paper, if you ask Janet.
—the breasts of post-Barb-Wire Pamela, though, are an artistic feat. The stuff of dreams. Janet would make this clear as she flashed the second photo. Pamela in tan skin and white muslin and heavily-lip-lined. Perfect perky Pamela.
The doctors each had a purple marker and a camera. They would sketch out their artistic intentions for the recreation in Janet of Pamela circa 2000 as they named prices, dates, options. There are so many options. Entry points, for one. Size and material. Financing. Janet would rapid-fire her questions and then turn to me. She’d say “Write that down.”
The doctors would then stand Janet against a white wall and take pictures for the “before” album—nice little relics to reminisce on when Janet 3.0 looks back on this rudimentary phase of herself. Or, more likely, the photos were intended for some necessary use related to the doctors’ construction of Janet 3.0. The camera would click and pop at each angle as Janet turned 360 degrees front to back and front again, profile angles, quarter angles, shoulders back, lungs full of air with the breath she held waiting for him to direct the next pose.
Doctor number one promised anything—financing, triple-stacked-silicone implant options, a third breast if she was a sci-fi fanatic. A first ethical question began to sketch itself out in my head.
Doctor number two became jealous of the previous purple marker stitches left over from the consultation of doctor number one.
Doctor number three approved of the shopping. He made it a point to ask Janet why she was shopping for a second procedure when the first was already a relative success, didn’t cause problems, looked fine in clothing. It seemed like a nice doctorly question to ask.
Doctor number four listed statistics, studies, warned Janet that these things might need replacement at some point in time that was more than a decade from now but maybe not before her ultimate demise. They may not last a lifetime, is what he meant to say. Maybe just half of one.
And that, too, seems like a relevant conversation, yes? A second ethical question was raised.
But of course Janet already knew this. A veritable trove of breast implant information, that one.
Doctors number 5-7 shared an office. Theirs was the one Janet approached on referral. My next question became, referral by whom!? What woman does Janet know whose breasts are so wonderful that Janet would pay to have them recreated? Why haven’t I heard her name at the wives’ club? Her breasts may be legendary.
The large doctors office had pamphlets and samples and trade magazines and framed journalistic reports re: their very office that were spaced evenly across the waiting room walls. Three receptionists fielded phone calls and Janet and I waited in seats facing other patients who waited, too. The mood was pleasant with a slight current of excitement running through. As far as cosmetic surgery is concerned, we each seemed to be running away with thoughts of the possibilities.
We met with three doctors there and I learned three things:
- Women with breast implants report higher rates of sexual satisfaction, a new study shows. The factor has something to do with self-confidence.
- Janet can get some sort of package deal on a second procedure if they’re done (and paid for) at the same time. So can I, apparently. It was suggested that I remove the bags under my eyes while Janet was visiting the ladies’ room. It was also suggested that I consider breast implants myself, or a tummy-tuck, or a full mommy makeover. I was asked if I had any unsightly veins showing on my legs.
- Note: Doctor number 6 is a terrible person. I had plenty of bodily hang-ups without his help
- Further note: so many ethical questions raised.
- Doctor number seven is my guy. He may not end up being Janet’s guy, but if ever I take the plunge and decide to do a little self-improvement on any of my old (or brand-new) hang-ups, this is my guy. Because he didn’t try to sell me on anything, for one. Because he didn’t try to sell Janet on anything unrealistic. He didn’t promise that Janet would come out of surgery looking like Pamela Anderson. It is important to note here, I think, that doctor number one undeniably did promise that. Others hinted. Doctor number seven listed risks—real risks related to Janet’s specific condition of already having had one breast augmentation—because they are not exactly the same risks, and while each patient faces the same general list of risks with cosmetic procedures, they are also individuals, and face those risks at different rates of occurrence. Doctor number seven is my guy because he felt like a doctor rather than a magician or a salesman.
Janet had a few questions she asked each doctor. Aside from the Pamela Anderson phases and photographic evidence of improvements, she asked them point-blank how good they were, as doctors, and as artists. It is important to make this distinction, I think. I know Janet thinks that. Because a cosmetic procedure, at the end of the day, is an artistic one. It is accomplished through a medical means, but it is aesthetic. Being a good doctor is only one facet of being a good cosmetic doctor. It’s very good if they are skilled enough not to kill you on the operating table, or otherwise mess up the smooth functioning of one’s body, but it’s really quite pointless if the results are not an improvement upon the body in question—especially an improvement great enough to justify the high price tag.
Which I noticed, strangely, seemed to be about the same everywhere we went. There was not great difference in the cost of the procedure but there is likely a wild difference in potential outcomes.
Doctors 1-6 all claimed to be at the top of their fields, artistically and methodically. Which may be true. But if they are all at the very top, then it begs the question of who is below them? They all claimed to be known for their breast augmentations. And maybe they are. But if we had been shopping for a rhinoplasty, or a face lift, or a fifth limb, is it possible they would have made the claim that they were known for those procedures instead?
Doctor number 7 did not claim this. Instead, he said this: “My dear, this is why doctors practice medicine. We practice that which we aim to become better at. As doctors, we must all remind ourselves that we don’t know it all. As such, we must always force ourselves to learn and improve—it is our duty to our patients.” He pointed out that when Janet had her first breast augmentation, it appears that the surgery was done by someone who was, at the time, at the top of his field. Then he said that a surgery like that just wouldn’t do today. He said, “Am I good? I do believe so, absolutely. Am I at the top? I would hope so. Will I still be there tomorrow? It is my duty to you to keep clamoring for that.”
It is possible that he is nearly as set on perfection as Janet is.
When we were leaving the office Janet had one last test. She leaned in towards the receptionist’s desks and whispered, “If you were going to choose a doctor to do your breast augmentation, who would you choose?”
The receptionist blinked for a moment, and looked around.
She said, “I’m sorry, but it’s against office policy to make these recommendations.”
Then she slid doctor number seven’s card across the desk.