Stephanie March recently opened up about getting breast implants in an effort to save her marriage to Bobby Flay. She penned an essay for the website Refinery 29; here is an excerpt:
"This is a story with a happy ending. It has a normal enough beginning. A scary middle part wherein the heroine thinks it’s all over. But, remarkably, it’s all okay — great, even — in the end.
Three years ago, I embarked on an unwanted, and partially unwarranted, odyssey through hospital corridors, doctors’ offices, and all the first-aid aisles of seemingly all the Duane Reade pharmacies in New York City. It started when my appendix burst in October of 2013. It continued with a late-night emergency appendectomy surgery in November, surgery for my endometriosis in December, and elective surgery for a breast augmentation in August of the following year. That last one was the one that brought me to my knees.
Before I go any further, I want to say clearly and truly that I have no problem with plastic surgery. None whatsoever. It’s a private matter. It’s nobody’s business. It often turns out just fine. And I fully anticipate my revisiting it in the years to come, if I’m being honest.
But I now know that my decision to have a breast augmentation in 2014 was the wrong decision, for so many reasons. I was 39 years old, and my life was disintegrating. Couldn’t get a job I wanted on camera, couldn’t get attention for my production projects, couldn’t travel the world far enough or fast enough or immerse myself in philanthropy enough to make it all go away. It was like watching a glacier cleave into giant chunks: massive and seemingly well beyond my control. See, the other thing that was happening was that my marriage of nearly 10 years (and 14 together) was falling apart. And nothing, nothing was helping me cope. Not therapy, not patience, not wine-soaked dinners with friends where I “got it all out.” Great spidery cracks widened over time. Boom. Boom. Boom.
...By this point, my marriage had completely tanked, it was all over the tabloids, and my mother had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and moved in with me for her treatment. It was time to move on and deal with my life. I said, “Enough of this. I have other things to worry about. Take them out. I’m done with this project.”
The day of the final surgery arrived, and before I went under, I spent a few moments catching up with my surgeon. I told him I was getting a divorce and nervously joked, “New people are going to see these for the first time in years. You have to make them look good.” He smiled very kindly and said, “Don’t worry. You never needed me for that.”
...And yes, a new person has seen my breasts. It felt awkward at first: Those scars announce news about my medical history a little earlier than I might have wanted to share it. In an ideal world, I might have snuck subtle improvements in — done a little work here and there and passed it off as a God-given attribute. But in reality, my torso says, “I tried this thing and it didn’t work out.” He seems not to mind. In fact, he has been quite tender about it.
But finally, once and for all, this isn’t about what anyone else thinks. It really does not matter anymore. I have accepted this episode as a part of my larger story. And I refuse to be ashamed of it. I am taking back my body, my story, and myself in a bathing suit. Today, the scars are fading into fine white lines. My breasts are small, well proportioned, and just right for my body. Every day, the evidence of all that happened fades a little more, and my year of living terribly recedes into memory.
All that I had, all that I was, from the beginning, was all I needed to be. And now, I anticipate summer of 2016 with great joy. I will be poolside, beachside, and swimming — and perhaps, in a more daring moment (with a margarita nearby), I will be topless. I have nothing to hide."
Read the full essay at Refinery 29.
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