We were on a back road driving away from a house in the woods. The roads leading us bent like wire, traced the land like fingers grazing a body. The ups and downs where a heft of fat piles. The divots of a joint, a crease. The fields of stretch marks. The road barraging through the trees like a scar. 
My mother drove and I sat in the passenger seat. I was staying with her and my father for Thanksgiving, and the two of us were spending the morning together. In the car, that Girls Only morning, a conversation we often returned to arose. I was twenty-two and I had been wearing an H cup bra since I was fourteen. When I lived at home, my mother would take me to a specialty boutique in an upscale Baltimore suburb once a year where women with disco-balls for engagement rings would usher us behind pink curtains and pull the minimal stock of bras that would support our spilling chests. The store had an in-house tailor who would sew darts in the sides of my bras before the rest of my body caught up to my breasts. Eventually, my sides swelled too, and I didn’t need the tailor, the darts. 
At twenty-two, I wanted to be done with that. And the ache. The ache that ached across my upper-back, mid-back, and neck. The ache that sometimes ached in my head. The ache that slumped my shoulders forward, that crushed my lower back under its weight. I wanted to be done with that at twenty-two, and I couldn’t imagine how my similarly- bodied mother felt in her fifties. I knew she had considered a breast reduction surgery before, but wondered where she stood now. 
“I’ve thought about it,” she said. “But to be honest, your dad doesn’t want me to.” A robin swooped in front of us. A low and fast escape. 
“But you should look into it,” she encouraged. “Just ask Ian what he thinks.” Ian, my boyfriend. The road curved on ahead of me, trees thinning to open land once used for farming, now just grass. Flat as I could imagine. 

❋ 

I saw my pediatrician for the last time at the end of Middle School. I had chronic sniffles for a few months coupled with occasional breathing trouble, and when I had recently taken a trip away from home, my symptoms disappeared. My mother, who had been allergic to cats all her life, knew exactly what ailed me, but I wanted a different truth. I hoped the doctor could tell me my mother’s genes evaded me and something else was to blame for this condition. 
I don’t remember being the type of child bothered by the doctor’s office. The place welcomed its patients, with its primary-colored wallpaper and children’s magazines in the waiting room. Each exam room featured a maze or interactive picture mounted to the wall next to the chair where my mother and I would wait until the doctor entered. 
By the allergy visit, I was too old for the games and railroad wallpaper. I waited quietly next to my mom whose mind likely wandered to memories of my small body on her lap wailing at needles. My doctor never bothered me as much as my dentist, who wore glasses that made his eyes appear to bulge out of his sockets like cone flowers and yelled at me when I cried. 
“Tell me about your symptoms?” The doctor said when he entered the room. I recounted the sniffles, the scratch in my throat, the wheezing some nights, and explained that each trouble from my sinuses to my lungs disappeared after two weeks away from home. 
“So, you want me to tell you you’re allergic to home?” He chuckled, locking eyes with my mother for a moment as if they were united in the joke of my desperate denial, my wanting a path for my body not predetermined by the blood I couldn’t see running from my mother’s veins to mine. By this time, my bras were size 34G. 
“How’s your health otherwise?” He asked, transitioning toward general check-up questions: school performance, eating habits, social activities, exercise. “Do you dance?” He said out of nowhere. 
I shook my head, confused. “No, I don’t dance.”
He looked again at my mother with the boldness of a man who had never in his life said the wrong thing. 
“She looks like she can move.” 
He recommended allergy medicine, or no more cats. 

❋

Breast reduction surgery has around a 95% satisfaction rate. The website for McHugh Plastic Surgery says so under a heavily photoshopped woman lying on a pile of pebbles. She is tanned and shiny, glowing enough to suggest the sexy kind of sweat, which can only be achieved by expertly placed highlighter and no sweating of any kind. Her back is arched, so her whole torso flirts toward the viewer. Her left hand rests in her pillowed hair, while her right hand pulls down the waistband of her shorts. She also wears a white crocheted bikini halter top that reveals a series of jewels lined along her sternum. Her breasts are not very large. 
The photo appears on my screen when I click the article titled “Five Reasons Why Breast Reduction Surgery Has Such a High Satisfaction Rate.” The reasons include “Eliminate chronic pain,” “Return to an active lifestyle,” “Regain confidence and self-esteem,” “Improve posture and breathing,” and “Enjoy clothes again.” Dr. Thomas McHugh writes “My patients are grateful, happy, and excited to regain a healthy and active life.” 

❋

Before surgery, my breasts were mine. My breasts weighing down my body, which has been mine since its pushing into the world, bloody, crying, and hungry. My breasts were mine when my friend’s mother bought me a striped black and white bra for my ninth birthday. They were mine when the boys spent lunch hour ranking the seventh-grade girls’ tits over tater tots. They were mine when the boys in Drama Club called them “bahongas” and jiggled them in their hands. They were mine in French horn lessons, when the boy next to me asked my cup size between songs. They were mine when they slipped out of my swimsuit in a big Ocean City wave, nipples meeting the wide eyes of  my childhood friend. They were mine in other hands. They were mine in unwanted hands. They were mine even when they were made to belong to the world while they swelled out of my chest, inseparable from my living. 

❋ 

My family friend got a breast reduction nearly twenty years ago, after the birth of her second son. Her surgery involved drainage tubes to collect excess blood and fluid. Everyday, she would drain the tubes herself, the blood and mysterious leakage running down a drain with the day’s dried toothpaste and hand soap. I heard from everyone about leaking and discharge. A friend told me her neighbor leaked from her nipples months after the surgery. I heard elsewhere it could be permanent, the breasts a kind of broken faucet dripping loud drops into the night. 
A year before my surgery, a close friend got a double mastectomy as a gender affirming procedure. He too spoke of tubes and blood and the body crying from its tender chest. Our mutual nurse friend was his caretaker the week after his surgery. The nurse made him food and prepped his pain meds in between bouts of tube-emptying. Another drain flushed red. 
For my surgery, I didn’t get tubes, just thick gauze padded in my surgical bra, what I imagined was similar to the seventh-grade girls stuffing their push-up bras with tissue in the locker room. When I removed it before each wash, an auburn and yellow watercolor appeared, a faint rendition of a sunset on fire, my blood and puss absorbed in cotton and placed in the trash. 

❋  

The first step for the surgery would be to find a doctor. I needed someone in my insurance network, somewhere close to home, and, very important to me, a woman. 
The summer before I turned twenty, I was living at home with my parents. One night before bed, I removed my tampon and noticed that it looked unusual: smaller than normal and frayed at the bottom, as though it had been ripped. Embarrassed, but mostly frightened, I showed it to my mother, and she agreed, it didn’t look right. The words “toxic shock syndrome” swam through my head, and I panicked. I couldn’t feel anything else down there, but what if it had been lodged farther up? Sucked all the way beyond my cervix by a mysterious uterine vacuum? What if the torn piece of tampon was too small to feel, but would still infiltrate my body like an ultra-absorbent parasite? 
After hours of tears and pleading and calling doctors and nurses who refused to advise via telephone, my mother drove me to the ER, where I propped my legs up on stirrups and allowed a male doctor to insert a speculum inside of me and spread open the walls of my vagina. He was gruff and cold as he peered inside me, like the dentist who used to roll his eyes when tears would well up in mine. I insisted that something must be in there, that the tampon was ripped, and its other half burrowed somewhere unreachable. Unconvinced, he examined me no longer than a minute. 
He found nothing. “I’ve seen some strange looking tampons in my day,” he said, removing his gloves into the trash. 

❋

Post-surgery, sometimes, my nipples sting. Like radio static, a low hum radiating from the nipple out to the circumference of the areola, the pain noticeable enough for my brain to send a twitch or a light grimace to my face, but not so much that I might involuntarily grasp my boob with my hand mid conversation. It started just on the left breast, which took longer to heal than the right and is still more swollen four months later, puffed up like a marshmallow at the tip. Now both breasts fall to random periods of pain, sometimes when my bra is too tight, sometimes during physical activity, sometimes for no reason at all. 
One of the side effects of breast reduction surgery listed on the pamphlet I received during my consultation is simply “Pain, which may persist.” No indication of the degree of the pain, nor the duration. “Pain, which may persist.” 
I lived with persistent pain before my surgery. When several pounds of flesh hang off a 5’3” frame, it naturally begins to give, to succumb to the weight pulling down, despite every desire to stand straighter and taller. I did yoga to build muscle in my back and core, to stretch away the pain. 
When that stopped working, I went to the gym and lifted weights, building even more muscle, trying on the weight-loss miracle cure doctors tote for all ailments. The day after each work out would bring a momentary pause to the pain, but by evening the toll of my heavy breasts would reappear in the familiar ache along my back and neck, the bra straps digging into my shoulders. I was working against a downward force. 
Sometimes, I would ask Ian to stand behind me and hold my breasts in his hands, taking on the weight as his own. I could never believe the difference. To have that burden lifted. To stand with the lightness of a stranger. To feel the weight like an anchor when he let go. Body against body, day after day. Pain, and its persisting. 

❋

I didn’t have drainage tubes placed after my surgery, but I did have sutures that had to be removed about a week later. The surgeon came in to remove the tape and ask how much pain medicine I was taking. He looked over my bruised and swollen breasts as he peeled off the tape. He told me my swelling would subside and my hyper-sensitive nipples would return to normal, then he left the nurse to her job of removal. 
I was a hemline with a loose string, and the nurse pulled it out. She pulled, and the suture felt like a part of me I would miss, a seam stitched deep within me and responsible for holding me intact. It was an unraveling. Not painful, but distressing, like I would walk out of the room gangly, stretched out and ripping from the inside. I didn’t know they were there before she pulled, but I missed them as soon as they were gone. 
She asked about the weather while she unmade me. It was early morning and gray. January. She asked about my transformation, if I was happy with the results. “I was a 34H before this,” I told her. 
“My, that’s a lot,” she said. “Especially for a small person.” She ran her gloved fingers along my side, feeling for another thread. 
“You still have a lot of breast tissue,” she elongated the word, dipping her tongue on the L as if she would sing. 
I think I laughed. 
My mouth full of thread, my body unspooled. 

❋

When I called my friends flat-chested at Andrea’s eleventh birthday party, I thought I was making an unbiased, objective observation about the state of their chests versus mine, which was obviously far from flat. I thought I was speaking a clear and indisputable truth: The sky is blue and Megan has no boobs. Even after I said it and Megan and Sarah and Anna all dropped their jaws and scowled, I had no idea I had done anything wrong. They were flat chested. 
A year later, after lunch period, we were headed to biology when Megan stopped me in the hallway to tell me what she overheard at lunch. A few of the boys in our class were talking about the girls with the best boobs, and everyone decided that my boobs—some of the best, apparently— were wasted on me, because I was too ugly. They wished that Ashely had my boobs instead. Wouldn’t that be nice. 
At some point, every girl learns that her body does not belong to her. 
“You have the body of a porn star. Don’t waste it.” 
“If you were a stripper, I’d come watch you every night.” 
When I told smaller-chested people about my surgery, almost always I’d hear “If you’re getting rid of them can I have them?” 
If I could have given my boobs to Ashley, I would have done it right there at the lunch table. Instead, years later, they became medical waste—at least most of them did. I wonder what the boys would say about that.

❋

On a hot August day, I sat in the waiting room of the Crystal Clinic Plastic Surgery office trying to not have a panic attack. I learned that some health insurance plans would only cover the procedure as a last resort. Some would require months of physical therapy or other treatment before considering coverage of the surgery. A friend of a friend had to pay for massages and chiropractor visits—all of which failed to permanently relieve her of any pain or discomfort—just to prove she had “tried it all.” 
If I had to come in, tits out, and justify the experience of my own body to a person who would have the power to decide if my condition was “extreme” enough to undergo a relatively moderate surgery, I wanted to know that person whom I was trusting with my pain would be able to see me. When my own research failed to turn up any potential female plastic surgeons with breast reduction specialization under my insurance network, I asked my primary care doctor if she had any leads. She referred me to my gynecologist, who gave me a list of four men and one woman. The woman did not accept my insurance. 
The Hess & Sandeen Plastic Surgery Practice website says that in 2019, 92% of all cosmetic procedures were performed on women. A 2017 article states that 14% of practicing plastic surgeons are women, with the optimistic tidbit that 37% of current plastic surgery trainees are women. 
The consultation began with a female nurse asking me a series of screening questions. How big were my breasts? Where did the pain occur? How would I rate my pain? Had I tried losing weight? Had I tried pain medication? Did I get rashes under my breasts? An itch or a foul smell? Did my breasts prevent me from performing day to day activities? Did my bra straps dig into my shoulders? Did they leave permanent dents? Had I tried bras with wider straps? Had I tried physical therapy? Had I tried back massages? Had I tried anything else? 
After her questions, the nurse pointed to an olive robe on the exam table. She told me to remove my shirt and bra and put on the robe. 
The surgeon entered and shook my hand. He handed me a pamphlet about breast reduction surgery. He asked me what I knew about the procedure and if I had any questions. At this point, he had barely looked at me, hadn’t seen me without the robe wrapped loosely across my chest, hadn’t measured or ogled or taken a note. 
“People might tell you to try exercising, weight loss, chiropractors, whatever,” he said. “But that won’t fix the problem.” 
I hadn’t cried or bared my chest or begged to be taken seriously. Hadn’t described the shapes of my pain, the origins, the lunch table. I walked in, sat down, was believed. 

❋

The first time I went bra shopping without my mother was a week after my surgery. I measured myself at home as soon as I had healed enough to remove the bulky gauze from the compression bra I found myself wearing when I awoke from the procedure. 
36DDD. 
Still a large number, I thought, but when I looked down, or in the mirror, I knew the difference was more than the numbers. When I removed my bra for my first post-op shower, I saw my chest and feared for a moment that the doctor had made me too small. 
My mom and I always shopped for bras together because we each had the same inconvenient need, and because the stores that would provide for us were hard to come by. Even when I moved from Maryland to Ohio for college, I still only bought new bras when I came home for breaks, traveling the 45 minutes away from our home to the store we trusted to measure us, fit us, and stock the right bras for us. 
Without my mom and with my new boobs, I went to a Soma in a mall in Ohio. I walked in with my new number: 36DDD. I flipped through styles and colors never before available to me, unable to focus on one item for more than a few seconds. I attracted the attention of the sales associate, who asked if she could help. 
“I just got a breast reduction and I’m looking for new bras,” I said. 
“Let’s get you remeasured,” she said, ushering me into the fitting room. 
In the fitting room, I removed my top and watched in the mirror as the sales associate strung a measuring tape around the fullest point of my bust, captive under the surgical bra, and the crease under my breast. 
“36DDD,” she said. “I’ll be right back with some options for you.” She disappeared and returned not long after with a heap of multi-colored, multi-styled bras. Clear mesh, intricate lace, a familiar bra-type called “minimizer,” designed to constrict boobs so much that they would appear smaller. Usually, my mother and I would leave our shopping trips with the same style and brand, just in slightly different sizes. It was never a matter of accessorizing. We bought new bras when we had worn ours to discolored, stretched, sagging rags. Broken-wired, split-seamed ghosts of bras. 
I thanked the woman for her help, expecting her to leave. Instead, she asked a question: “Did they go as small as you wanted them to go?” 
“What?” I asked. 
“Did the doctor make you the size you wanted?” I remembered my first look down at my new body. How I thought myself so much smaller than before. 
“Yes,” I said. “He did.” She nodded back with a small smile and walked out, leaving me to stare at the minimizer bra she placed in my hands.

❋

My parents drove to Ohio after my surgery and stayed for a few days to help around the house. I wasn’t supposed to lift, to bend down, to stretch my arms high enough to reach the olive oil or wooden spoons on the top of the fridge. 
The post-op pamphlet I received emphasized the importance of hygiene to prevent infection. With my limited movement, my tender breasts, and the lattice-work of medical tape covering my scars, I still had to descend to the basement of our old house each day for a shower. 
The surgical bra clasped in the front and had racerback Velcro straps that easily tangled and twisted. The bra was packed with gauze that soaked up blood and excess fluid and provided padding to keep my extra sensitive nipples from grating against the fabric. In the first few days of recovery, getting the bra off and on was a two-person job. Ian helped for the first shower and sat outside waiting for me in case I dropped the shampoo bottle or hurt myself by turning my torso toward the stream of high-pressure hot water pellets. He held the towel wide for me as I finished and gently pat the water off my back before reclasping the bra and stuffing it with fresh gauze. 
After the first day, Ian had to work. I relied on my parents to take the dog out, to reach the high places, to keep me from overexerting myself, and to shower. 
My mother came downstairs with me, carrying my towel and her iPad, so she could play solitaire while she waited for me to finish. She helped remove my shirt, grabbing the hem after my arms got stuck lifting halfway. She undid the Velcro bra straps while I held the cups in place, keeping the gauze cradled around my flesh. She gently unclasped the front. I let the bra drape from my chest and into my hands. She placed the used padding in the trash can and turned around to look at me. 
“Does it look ok?” I hadn’t looked in the mirror yet, and I wouldn’t for another few days, too squeamish to see the bruising and scarring, the dried blood and the swelling. 
She looked back at me, her eyes moving up and down my chest. She was always the parent that would clean my skinned knees and remove my splinters. I knew she saw beyond the surgical traces to the whole picture of my new body, the body that came from hers and shared dressing rooms, sweaters, contact lenses, allergies, fears, habits, cravings, curls, and blood. She saw my straightened shoulders. She saw a life void of the back spasms she suffered that Christmas, taking breaks between washing dishes and mixing the stuffing. She saw the clothes I could now wear, the bathing suits, the dresses, the sports bras. She saw a freedom to move, to occupy space without a thousand eyes daring me to answer for my shape. Beyond the tape and ache, beyond the arbitrary measurements, beyond those who would never know the before and after, she saw the promise of a new body carrying her daughter into the world.