In the past decade there has been a great increase in women ready and willing to be plumped up and stitched back together in their quest to bring the ‘girls’ back to their former glory, or to satisfy a yearning to look good in a frock. I was one of them.

Whether you hold the media, the beauty industry or plain vanity responsible, there is no denying most women want to look their best, and some are willing to take the road to ‘perfection’ by way of elective surgeries. These days plastic surgeons offer an extensive line of options and the industry is enjoying vigorous growth. If you want to lift it, tuck it, enlarge it, or remove it, there is a surgeon who can make that a reality.

About 18 months ago I bought into the dream and purchased myself some shiny new boobs. They were just for me. I didn’t feel the need to show them off to everyone, but I wasn’t secretive about it either; all my friends and family knew. I did careful research, choosing the surgeon on a recommendation from a friend (who looked great). I was satisfied that I too could have the fabulous results she had experienced.

I talked also to several surgeons, and accepted the risk of general anaesthetic and other elements of surgery with nervous anticipation, but no real reservations. I chose a brand filled with inert silicone gel, marketed as one of the safest options. My decision was not undertaken lightly; it was something I had thought about throughout my adult life. I was 44, a grown up, and considered myself fully informed ... I was wrong.

It was seven months after my procedure that I began to experience unexplained symptoms. For weeks there were little things that would just not go away: a scratchy throat, a persistent little cough and elevated temperature. It was disconcerting but I went about my life.

Over the next two months my symptoms progressed to a point where I realised that something was not right. My throat felt as if someone had a tight grip on it; I was having trouble remembering anything and often I couldn’t find the right word to use at all. A particularly frightening development was my loss of comprehension; during conversations with colleagues I could not follow the thread and would have to remove myself from the situation. At times my cognitive skills failed me completely – I would spend several moments at traffic lights trying to ascertain which light change required what action before I could make a decision. My temperature was consistently high; I was experiencing major digestive issues and real difficulty breathing so I went to my general practitioner.

So began six months of tests, visits to an endocrinologist (“it’s your breathing technique”), a gastroenterologist (“mild gastric activity”),  ultrasounds, chest X-rays, tests for coeliac disease, diabetes, thyroid disease and even brain tumours. Each doctor discarded the idea that it was implant related. I was making weekly distressed phone calls to my GP who sat looking at me with a bemused expression at each visit.

But I knew something was wrong. All my energy seemed to be trying to counter a rogue bug that nobody could identify. The fact that it had been doing so for so long without success told me that I was still harbouring the interloper.

As my health issues escalated into real problems, (by now I was experiencing muscle aches, hair loss, fatigue, vertigo, sensitivity to light and numbness and tingling in my extremities), my job and my personal life began to suffer and my immediate family was having to accommodate my inability to do things for myself.

Still receiving blank looks from all quarters of the medical profession, I now turned to the obvious font of knowledge – the internet. This research method is usually discounted by medical professionals (often for valid reasons), but it was here I found a huge source of documented experiences from women all over the world who had the exact same symptoms and fears. What surprised me was that there were many thousands of them. When the realisation hits that there are two time bombs encased within your chest, your reaction is pure terror, and these other women recognised my fears immediately.

When it became clear 
to me that I had very real 
issues caused by my new implants, I spent days raging and crying to the people 
closest to me. I didn’t want 
this to be the reality. I didn’t want to believe that I had made a grave mistake in accepting these foreign objects into my body; that I had put my life in jeopardy. These things were safe now I argued; ‘everyone’ had them.

The women I have met throughout this experience are leading the way in keeping others informed of methods of explantation (implant removal) and recovery. On one of these sites, I put a call out to New Zealand women who had experience of this type of systemic illness and attributed it to their implants. This appeal brought about contact with, among others, Jo, who had recently returned to Auckland from the United States after explantation surgery by Dr Susan Kolb in Atlanta. Dr Kolb is a plastic surgeon who specialises in helping women with complications from silicone and saline (encased in silicone) implants.

Jo’s implant removal had confirmed that both her implants were ruptured. Comparisons of our symptoms and her report of the immediate improvements to her health post-explantation fired my need to clarify my own situation. I phoned a plastic surgeon who had performed non-elective surgery on me a couple of years prior and he provided me with a referral to an ultrasound technician with experience in breast abnormalities. The lump that was discovered wasn’t a surprise to me. It was confirmation that I wasn’t neurotic; small victory that it was, I felt vindicated.

Two days before Christmas 2009 I was sent for a biopsy, during which a further four lumps were discovered. The biopsy revealed no cancer, 
and the consensus was that 
my implants had not spectacularly ruptured, but that my overwrought immune system had created the lumps as a response to the foreign silicone shell.

I had my surgery in January 2010. Three months later the majority of my symptoms had disappeared. The long-term prognosis for recovery seems to be different for each woman. I do still struggle somewhat with fatigue and memory loss. I can no longer drink alcohol and 
I have to monitor everything I eat because of newly formed allergies and intolerances.

This past year has taught me a great deal about myself, and has deeply challenged my perceptions of beauty. I could never have foreseen how the events would change me in ways far beyond my original physical objective.

 I see clearly now how I got to this point, and realise that without going through this exhausting yet enlightening experience I could never have discovered these new insights into my values system.

In my willingness to manipulate my natural shape I exposed myself to more danger than I ever anticipated. My implants were supposedly top grade, brand spanking new and ‘intact’. Yes, they did look pretty damn good in a frock, but at what cost?