Real Girl Next Door

by Denise Richards

  However, all of the pros impressed me. They were genuinely nice people, patient, immensely fun to watch close-up, and thrilled at the opportunity to have their talents put in the spotlight.

  With a week to go before the season opener, the atmosphere behind the scenes turned intense. The effort took a toll. Jewel withdrew with what she thought was tendonitis. It turned out she had fractured tibias in both legs. Then Nancy O’Dell dropped out with a torn meniscus, which required knee surgery. Former Bachelor contestant Melissa Rycroft and Girls Next Door Playmate Holly Madison stepped in as last-minute replacements.

  Ignoring reports of the Dancing curse, Maks pushed me to my limit and beyond as we worked on our first dance, the chacha. One day I simply cracked. I backed up against the mirror and slid to the floor, crying. Word got out, and Maks was accused of driving yet another partner to tears. I didn’t blame him. I put pressure on myself. I wanted to do well. I also didn’t want to embarrass myself on live TV.

  On the flip side, I was in heaven with all the sequins, heels, eyelashes, spray tans, and costumes. It was the best kind of dress-up game, and I shared it all with Sam and Lola. On Sunday, we did an extensive run-through for the director and cameras. It was a full day of blocking. Early the next morning, everyone was ferried to the studio, where we rehearsed with the live band for the first time, spent the rest of the day getting dolled up and dressed, and then, finally, it was showtime.

  I’ll let you in on a not-so-little secret: never mind the twenty-million-plus people watching at home, I freaked out at the idea of dancing in front of the studio audience. Though a novice dancer, I was going to attempt to pull off a complex routine that would’ve tested someone who’d cha-cha-ed for years, and when our turn arrived, my nerves were as apparent as my spray-on tan. I didn’t feel confident in my dance, and consequently I never relaxed. “You looked terrified out there,” said judge Carrie Ann Inaba, and Bruno Tonioli agreed. “You’ve got it all, but you don’t know what to do with it,” he said. They were spot-on, of course. But I’d just wanted to make it through the routine. No flubs, no falls, no problem.

  During week two, Maks was nicer. “Look at you, you’re becoming a little ballroom dancer,” he said in one rehearsal. “I’m so proud of you.” On the show, the judges noted an improvement, too. “Much better,” said Carrie Ann. “You were together,” added the third judge, Len Goodman. “Well done.” Though pleased, I had trouble the following week with the samba, which Bruno compared to a waffle, and I was sent home. Talk about relief. It was the first time I breathed easily in nine weeks.

  The next morning I broke the news to Sam and Lola. They were delighted I no longer had to spend my days rehearsing. Sam just had one question: “Does this mean you don’t get the trophy?” No, I didn’t, I explained. But there were other rewards. First and foremost, I’d provided my daughters a lesson in facing your fears, and I’d showed myself that I had the courage to step outside my comfort zone. It was okay to be afraid, but you couldn’t let fear stop you.

  In the process, I’d also lost an inch in my waist, dropping from a 26 to a size 25 jeans! My stomach was also flat and my legs and butt were rock hard. I wasn’t eating any less, either. I was just in better shape.

  Maks was the first person I called. I thanked him profusely for my new jeans size. He was also amused when I confessed that, despite our battles in rehearsals and my early elimination from the show, I’d fallen in love with dancing—and didn’t plan to stop.

  My friend Lisa Rinna had also turned into a dance fanatic after competing on the second season of Dancing, and she took me to a class taught by DWTS veteran Louis Van Amstel, who coached many of the show’s pros. In the class, we did all the dances they did on the show, including the cha-cha, the samba, the quickstep, and the paso doble, except you didn’t need a partner. It was a fantastic workout, with none of the pressure of the show. I didn’t check my watch once the whole hour. After one session, I was hooked. I still go.

  After Dancing, I wrapped season two of It’s Complicated, and when I finally had a few moments to myself when I could stop and take stock of the whirlwind my life had been since my mom’s turn for the worse, I was pleased about where I’d ended up. I was a little surprised, too. My mom had insisted I’d get through all the obstacles I faced, and when I didn’t see how, she’d simply said I was stronger than I thought, I’d figure it out, and as I thought about it now, I guessed she was right.

  I still wasn’t at the top of anyone’s list for movies or TV, but I accepted that my career as I neared forty might not be the same as it was at twenty-five. It could still be great, and with all that I’d been through, I felt that I could bring even more depth to a part. For the time being, though, my personal life was higher on my list of priorities, and I felt stronger and more confident than I had in years. I still had a ways to go. Who’s ever done growing and evolving? I don’t think I’ll ever be finished. And with kids, I had more growing and evolving ahead of me than I could possibly imagine. I didn’t even want to think about my little cuties hitting puberty, dating, and doing God only knows. For the time being, though, I was pointed in the right direction. My two gambles—doing a reality TV series and saying yes to Dancing—had paid off. The lesson? I’d taken control of my life instead of waiting for things to happen. My zest for life returned. I laughed more. I went out and socialized without worrying about the whole world hating me. People were starting to get to know the real me. I’d joined Twitter, which terrified me, opening myself up for people to tweet me whatever message they wanted to. I was so humbled and pleasantly surprised by the number of supportive messages and shocked that my followers are more than two million. They were a huge inspiration for writing this book.

  PART TEN

  Getting Work

  Done

  1

  IN EARLY JUNE 2009, as I left for New York to promote season two of It’s Complicated, my publicist, Jill, booked me onto Howard Stern’s radio show. She’d always turned down his invitations, but this time, she explained, she couldn’t think of a reason to say no. “What more could someone ask you?” she said.

  What more could he ask? There were the interviews most people did, and then there were Howard’s interviews. That’s what made him Howard. He asked questions no one else dared to ask. His Q&As skipped the boring stuff everyone else did and got right to the spicy questions where his subjects found themselves revealing the most surprising and intimate details; and if you weren’t self-confident and willing to answer questions honestly, you’d best not show up to Howard Stern. So it was a measure of where I was in my life and the progress I’d made in rebuilding my self-confidence and sense of humor that I arrived in New York actually looking forward to sitting across from him.

  Privately and publicly, I’d talked about the importance of owning your life, your entire life, the good and the mistakes, and learning from both, and as I knew, there was no better litmus test than a grilling from Howard Stern. I knew he’d ask about Charlie, but knowing Howard, I figured he’d skim over that well-worn subject and head straight to questions about the bedroom. No problem. I didn’t know how much detail I’d offer or how much he’d ask for, but I had done my share of sexy magazine shoots and had no issues acknowledging that I enjoyed the sensual side of a relationship. Look, as a grown woman I made no bones that great sex is important. I wasn’t afraid of anything he might ask, and that was a good, healthy feeling in itself.

  That morning, I woke up early in my hotel room, put on a sexy red dress and high heels, looked at myself in the mirror, and thought I wouldn’t have worn that outfit for the Today show, but I knew what Howard liked, as well as what his audience expected. In the car that took me to the studio, I was relaxed and looking forward to having fun, a nice change from previous press tours where I was on guard and defensive.

  On most radio shows, you are ushered into the studio during a break and introduced to the host. At Howard’s, it’s different. I was taken into the studio while he was on the air, an
d he drew me right into the conversation. It was my first time meeting Howard, who described me to his listeners and then jumped right into the interview. I don’t remember the order of questions, but he only touched on my ex briefly before getting to one of his favorite topics. “Are your breasts real?” he asked. “Are they natural?”

  I laughed. “They’re natural on the outside. I’m not going to lie to you because I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  Howard cocked his head. “So you had the operation?”

  I adjusted myself on his sofa. “A long time ago. I’ve had a few.”

  Within hours of my response, the Internet was full of stories about my boob job, as if an operation I’d had twenty years earlier was news. In a way, though, it was. Until Howard’s show, I’d never spoken about my first boob job—or the second or third. Not because I tried to hide that I’d had surgery or because I was embarrassed. The truth was, no one had ever asked. (Obviously that’s what makes Howard outstanding at his job.) But I have strong opinions about plastic surgery, as you might imagine—as it relates to your right to look the way that will give you the most self-confidence and also in terms of the precautions you need to take.

  Can plastic surgery help you remake yourself as you desire? Sometimes. Striving to be your best self is part of your journey, and some days your boobs are as important as your brain. I know that sounds funny, but self-esteem is like the circuit box that connects all the different parts. Sometimes you want to feel smart. Other times you want to feel sexy. Does having implants or your nose fixed make you any less real? No, not at all. It can make you feel better—much better. Can you get a bad doctor? Can you cross the line where you have too much work done? Well, you know the answer to that as well as I do. We’ve heard the stories, and we’ve seen the casualties. How do you know when you’re good, when to leave well enough alone? You just do, hopefully. My experiences encompass a bit of everything. Let me tell it to you.

  My sister was blessed with a natural C-cup. I was not and, of course, grew up a wee bit envious. All through junior high and high school, I waited to develop, and didn’t, and as a result, boys made fun of my chest. I had heard all their derogatory remarks—and they hurt. I was an A-cup. I wanted to be bigger—especially after I moved to L.A. I wish I had been more confident about my body back then.

  My roommate at the time had a fabulous figure—and great boobs. One night we were talking and I mentioned being self-conscious about my flat chest. Stephanie, who had fabulous, round, perfect breasts, confessed to having had hers done before moving to L.A. I was surprised and then intrigued as she suggested that I get mine done, too, if I wanted to be bigger. I glanced down at myself. Call me naïve, but until that moment I’d never thought that I could go out and buy new breasts. I mean, I had heard of women getting them done, but I had just never known anyone. Then I couldn’t get the idea out of my head.

  Able to afford an operation with the money I’d scraped together from modeling, I decided that I’d fill my A-cup with implants. Small implants. I didn’t want to be huge. Just big enough to fill a nice B-cup bra. I pictured myself showing off curves in a bikini and wearing a bustier. What would that be like? How fun would that be?

  My parents were not happy when they heard I’d met with a plastic surgeon. Neither was my modeling agent, who sounded like my parents when he warned against changing my physique. Both had their biases. Yet seeing I was determined to go ahead with it, my agent recommended a surgeon who had worked on other clients, though as I took the number down, he warned, “Don’t get them too big.”

  I would advise anyone thinking of the same operation, especially at nineteen years old, the age I was at the time, to meet with several doctors and educate herself as thoroughly as possible before going ahead with the operation, as one should with any surgery. I didn’t. Even though my parents were against it, they took me to the doctor’s office on the morning of the surgery. I was terrified—not of the surgery but of throwing up as I came out of the anesthesia, which I’d heard was a common side effect. My doctor assured me that something would be put in my IV to prevent that from happening. Just before I was put under, I looked up at the doctor from the table and said, “Remember, I just want to be a little fuller. Not too big. A B-cup is fine.”

  When I woke up from surgery, I felt as if hot knives were stabbing my chest. I had the sensation of heaviness there, as if the doctor had stood on top of me while sewing me shut. I knew slicing my breasts open and stuffing them with silicone was going to cause a period of discomfort, but I wasn’t prepared for the severity of the pain. They assured me that I had enough medication, which made me shudder at how bad it would’ve been without it, and I was surprised when I was sent home, bandaged and sore, later that afternoon.

  My mom almost fell over when she saw me. The bandage around me was so thick she thought I was a double D. I wasn’t that big, but I was close. When the swelling finally went down, I was close to a D. I was pissed. They were exactly what I didn’t want. While I filled out a bikini and bustier like nobody’s business, boobs that size were simply too big for my frame. I would’ve marched right back in and had them redone except for the pain of another operation.

  2

  INSTEAD I LIVED with them for several years. Then, while I was auditioning for Wild Things, which, if you recall, involved numerous callbacks, I learned the silicone in my breasts had hardened and my implants needed to be replaced. Perfect. Now I had to get them changed, and this time I’d make sure they were smaller. On the day before the operation, I was offered Wild Things. I didn’t cancel. It was a huge risk since I was going topless in the movie. What if my boobs didn’t look good?

  I was dismayed when, a week after the surgery, the swelling went down and I found that my boobs weren’t any smaller. In fact, they were even bigger. Despite my very specific instructions not to, the doctor had put in larger implants! The original pair were 255 cc; the latest pair were 275 cc! Upset that I’d gone through the operation for nothing, and in terrible pain, I flew to the movie’s Florida location without being able to lift my arms over my head for two weeks. All I could do was pray the nude scenes would come at the end of the three-month shoot, giving me enough time to heal.

  Years later, after I opened up about this experience on Howard Stern, a magazine writing about it brought in a so-called expert who called me a liar and said no doctor would put something in that I didn’t want. Not true—and as far as I was concerned, that statement was irresponsible because it happened. The proof was on my chest. And you know what? There are a lot of botched plastic surgeries and surgeons doing what they think will look good, not what the patient wants.

  I lived with my bigger boobies for a few years. It was difficult to wear clothes. My body was small, but with my big boobs I couldn’t button tops. I had to buy bigger sizes and get them altered, which was a pain in the ass—and expensive. Also, from the chest up, I thought I looked heavy on camera. The problem was, my body was out of alignment and I didn’t feel comfortable on camera or off.

  Finally, after finishing press for the Bond film, I worked up the courage for surgery number three. This time I met with several surgeons, explained my prior experiences, which I compared to betrayals, and eventually found a doctor I trusted. I actually bought a B-cup bra and made the surgeon fit the implants in that damn bra.

  Early that December, I went in for surgery. My boyfriend Pat and my parents took me to the appointment, then snuck me out the back door afterward since I was now more recognizable, and took me home, where I went through the same painful, hot-stabbing-knife recovery. After healing, I was finally happy with my size. I went from 275 cc to 180 cc. I could button my tops again!

  After my mom passed away, my OB had me get a mammogram so we’d have a baseline in my records. He called it precautionary, since I was in excellent health, but one of the results came back sketchy and I needed another one, which made me nervous. After the second mammogram yielded equally uncertain results, I started freaking out,
thinking I had breast cancer. By this time, I was battling a fear that I was going to die at a young age like my mom. I projected all sorts of terrible scenarios, all of which included missing my daughters’ growing up.

  Needless to say, I worked myself nervous. My sister drove to L.A. and accompanied me to my MRI, and then the two of us waited for the results at my house. I was a nutcase while waiting for the phone to ring. After a few hours, the doctor called: everything was fine—at least as far as my immediate worries. It turned out both of my implants were ruptured. There was no telling how that had happened, but I had to deal with it, which meant another surgery.

  I consulted with an amazing female doctor who’d been described to me as an artist who happened to be a surgeon. I loved that she was a woman doing breasts, and from our first meeting I felt comfortable with her. In December 2009, I went in for my fourth surgery—my first since my daughters were born. At five and four, they were too young to understand but old enough to worry if they knew too much, so I told them I was having a minor procedure on my back. I know that sounds ridiculous to tell them I had back surgery, and they were quite curious as to why I had stitches in front, but somehow I convinced them. They had to go through the front to get to the back. Makes sense to me, right?!

  My surgery took double the estimated time. My doctor said it was one of the worst ruptures she’d seen. Despite being under for hours, I woke up feeling great. I dubbed my anesthesiologist Dr. Feelgood. Wanting to avoid my girls those first few days when I was groggy, achy, swollen, and bandaged, I recovered at a private facility. It was like a Four Seasons hotel with nurses. Men and women walked around healing from various procedures, including nose jobs, face-lifts, lipo, and boob jobs. For most, their surgeries had been elective. I wondered whether they were finally addressing longtime issues or avoiding the inevitable. There’s a difference. Obviously I’m not against plastic surgery. I’d be a hypocrite if I said anything against it. If you’re considering a procedure, do as much research as possible, get several opinions, and don’t rush. Take your time finding the right doctor. I only wanted my breasts done; it took four surgeries and nearly two decades before I was finally satisfied, and healthy.