The Face Lift

AuthorHouse

Chapter One

If you live in any large city in the United States, such as Los Angeles, New York, Miami, or even Palm Springs for that matter, you will have a veritable cornucopia of board-certified plastic surgeons to choose from. They will have ads on billboards and television, in yellow pages and theatre programs, and I have personally seen them on the backs of bathroom doors in nightclubs! TV shows like Skin Deep, The Swan, Dr. 90210, and so on profile plastic surgery procedures. You see, in America having plastic surgery is like going for a root canal-not too much fun, but necessary, and very common.

In Calgary, Alberta, your choice of board-certified plastic surgeons is extremely limited, with no visible advertising. So where is a girl to get a recommendation? Well, the best place to start is with the person who has been helping you maintain your "completely natural" look all these years. Yes, your dermatologist.

If you have been going to this doctor every four or five months for the past several years for your little touch-ups, I assume that by now you have developed a fairly good relationship.

Most reputable dermatologists work with networks of other physicians who have practices in specialty areas, such as cosmetic dentistry, aesthetics, vein and laser treatment, and of course, plastic surgery.

Now here comes the hard part. It is embarrassing. How do I approach my darling Dr. A, after all his years of keeping me away from the knife, to ask him who would be the best person to slice open my face? My personal solution for this awkward moment was to have a couple of glasses of wine prior to my appointment.

After Dr. A has carefully administered an ever-so-slight dose of Botox (you see, I really don't need much), I take a deep breath and calmly say, "Dr. A, if you knew someone who was thinking about having plastic surgery-not me, of course, my good friend T-who would you recommend?" Brilliant, right?

"What are you having done?" he asks dryly without so much as a blink. Busted.

Okay, cat's out of the bag, and without a moment's hesitation he says, "There is only one doctor in the city that I would recommend, and that is Dr. L."

Great. My plan can move forward!

Chapter Two

So, I made the appointment, and the eight-month waiting period to see Dr. L. has flown by. As I sit in his small, somewhat unspectacular waiting room, I find myself (inconspicuously, I hope) checking out the other patients and making small personal wagers as to what procedures they might have had. I don't see any particularly large breasts, small noses, or tight cheeks. Hmmmmm. What could they have had done? Brazilian butt lifts? Surely they would be sitting on doughnut pillows, no?

My reverie is broken by the sound of the receptionist calling my name. My heart skips a beat, and I follow her down the long corridor to the examination room.

"The doctor will be right with you," she says, and as she turns around to close the door, I notice that for her eighty five-pound frame, she is sporting a spectacular rack! This doctor must be good!

As it turns out, "be right with you" is a standard phrase all receptionists use, and I put the next half hour to good use by carefully going over the top ten questions I had downloaded from a plastic surgery site called "The Top Ten Questions to Ask Your Plastic Surgeon." Smart, huh? I was also imagining what this god of all things beautiful would look like. After all, he had the kingdom of plastic surgery at his fingertips, so surely he would take advantage of all the gravity-defying procedures to advertise his craft more effectively!

A soft knock on the door. This is it. The door opens, and standing in front of me is what can only be described as a tiny, well-dressed lawn gnome! Diminutive isn't quite the word for it. He is about five feet three inches, with tufts of thin gray hair sprouting from his pink scalp, and a nose that speaks of many nights spent in a Scottish pub downing pints of Guinness followed by whiskey shots. He is clearly not a candidate for the cover of a Harlequin romance novel-not even close. But he has twinkling blue eyes, and I want to put him in my pocket!

In a very quiet voice, my mini doc says, "Good morning, and what have you come to discuss today?" I detect a slight Scottish accent! Am I right about the Guinness and whiskey as well?

"I would like to see about getting a neck lift, and wanted to ask you some questions if that is okay."

For the next forty-five minutes we go over my questions, his questions, the procedure, the cost, and my expectations, and finally we set the date.

I walk out of his office armed and dangerous, with all the information I need in the form of a beautiful twelve-page glossy pamphlet. Mona Lisa smiles confidently from the cover, looking youthful and radiant. Yes, I am prepared. My surgery date is booked, and I am ready to say, "Bye-bye, Turkey Neck!"

Chapter Three

It is 6:00 AM the morning of my surgery. All things considered, I had a remarkably good sleep, and I awake feeling optimistic and confident, with just a healthy amount of butterflies doing circles in my tummy. After all, since my initial consultation with Dr. L, I have had another four months to think this through. I have read every article to do with this procedure on the World Wide Web. I have scoured through hundreds of before-and-after photos. I have read the blogs of thousands of women who have not only been through it but have loved the results. Shiny, happy, tight, and wrinkle-free faces have beamed off the pages of my computer for four months. I am ready.

I have been told to dress comfortably and not to wear anything that needs to be pulled over my head. I tell myself that that doesn't mean I can't be stylish, so I pick out a pair of Christian Audigier track pants with a matching hoodie. Nice!

My darling husband has offered to drive me, and it is still dark as we set out to the surgical site on the other side of town. I need to be there at 7:30, and although our Google map assures us that it is only a fifteen-minute drive, I insist that we leave thirty minutes early just in case. Punctuality is a foundation of good living!

Fifteen minutes later we arrive at our destination. (Okay, okay, he was right.) A thin walkway leads us to the entrance of the facility, and we enter only to find that none of the staff has arrived yet. No problem. I see a sofa and a magazine rack filled to the brim with copies of such classics as Reader's Digest, Home and Garden, and my personal favorite, Calgary's Child, a very informative parenting guide. Even though my son is twenty-five, it never hurts to pick up some great childrearing tips.

Finally a nurse dressed in scrubs walks into the waiting area and calls my name. I stand up, and she advises me that there are some questions that need to be answered before the surgery.

I pass the test with flying colors, having followed all my pre-op guidelines to the letter. No, I have not consumed any alcohol for the past week. No I have not taken any aspirin or Advil. No, I have not had any food or drink since midnight.

"Perfect," she says, and for some reason I feel like giving myself a little pat on the back for being such a good girl!

The nurse directs us back to the waiting room and advises that the doctor should arrive shortly and will give my husband a prescription for the pain medications I will need to take after the surgery. Pain medications? Whatever for? The ladies in the blogs had said the post-op recovery was virtually pain-free. A veritable breeze! Must be a " just in case" thing.

Sure enough, my Cabbage Patch doll of a doctor greets us in the waiting room and gives the prescriptions to my husband. I cheerfully kiss him goodbye and virtually skip down the hall with my surgeon to the operating room.

"How are you feeling this morning?" he asks.

"Excited and just a bit nervous," I reply.

"Me too," he responds. What? Maybe I didn't hear him correctly, or maybe that is just a little of the old Scottish humor coming out!

In the operating room, I am introduced to the anesthesiologist who will literally have the balance of my life in his hands over the next three or four hours, which is how long I have been told the surgery will take. My anesthesiologist asks me if I have any allergies or if I have ever had any adverse reactions to anesthetic. I proudly answer no to everything. I am the epitome of health and verve!

"Okay," he says, "here comes the fun part. You will start to feel a little funny, like you are floating away."

I am about to reply, but my world fades to black.

Chapter Four

This is the best sleep I have ever had! I am warm, cozy, content; yet someone is trying to disturb me. In fact, I am pretty sure someone is shaking my arm and calling my name. How rude!

I try as best I can to ignore this inappropriate interruption of my precious slumber, but the arm-shaking and name-calling persist. Slowly I open one eye, and I can just make out the blurry image of a woman dressed in what looks like Mickey Mouse pajamas with a matching cap. Cute!

Then it starts to dawn on me. This isn't a slumber party. I am waking from my surgery, and it is my nurse who is calling my name. It is over! As I shake the last of the cobwebs from my anesthetized brain, she asks me if I am able to sit up and drink some ginger ale.

"No problem," I croak. Whoa! What has happened to my voice?

She sits me up and brings the straw to my lips. I notice that she has to use a precision maneuver to get the straw through what I guess are bandages to my mouth. Now, as you all know, I read the glossy pamphlet, so I was already well aware that there would be bandages on my head post-surgery. Not to worry!

"Your husband is on his way," she says.

"Great," I squeak before falling unconscious once again.

The next voice I hear is that of my husband calling my name, and I feel him gently shaking my arm. Why the hell can't these people just let me sleep?

With much effort, I open my eyes and focus on my little love muffin. For some reason, he has a look on his face that is somewhere between horror and repulsion. Was the traffic that bad getting back here to pick me up? Oh, well. He will get over it!

The nurse brings me my designer hoodie and helps me out of bed. "Time to go home!" she chirps.

I stand up, and although I am a little wobbly, I manage to make it to the car. I strap myself in and promptly fall asleep on the drive home.

When we make it back to our hacienda, John ushers me straight upstairs to my bedroom and helps me into bed. I have been instructed to sleep in an upright position (although, they didn't say for how long), so I am propped up by four fluffy pillows. The shades are drawn, and the only light comes from a soft lamp glowing in the corner. My husband asks if there is anything I need, and I offer him a small smile. Wait. Why won't my lips turn up? I must still be frozen, I tell myself, so I pat him on the arm and drift off once again.

I awake a few hours later to discover that I am in some serious pain! I haven't seen myself since the surgery, so I gingerly get out of bed and make my way to my en suite bathroom. I flip on the light.

Ladies, I am here to tell you that no one-nothing, no books, no blogs, no glossy pamphlets-nothing can prepare you for what you will see in the mirror that first time.

Staring back at me is a caricature of the woman I used to be! My head is completely encased in a helmet made up of tensor bandages and gauze. Tufts of hair are sticking out crazily from the top of the helmet and are caked with blood. What protrudes from those bandages is horrifying! My cheeks are so swollen that my once beautiful big green eyes look like beady little rat's eyes. My forehead is being pushed down by the tensors so tightly that my brow forms a bunch of wrinkled skin over my nose. My exposed neck is completely black and blue, and blood is seeping everywhere through the bandages. I can't believe what I am seeing!

Sure, they told me that there would be some swelling. Sure, they told me there would be some stitches. They did not tell me that I would awaken to find myself transformed into a hideous bridge troll.

I somehow manage to stagger back to my bed. I now know what the Percocet is for. It isn't so much for pain as it is for sedating yourself from the horror of what you become after surgery. I open the bottle and take two!

Chapter Five

The Percocets were a godsend. I am here to tell you that the first twenty-four hours of recovery were the worst and longest minutes of my entire fifty years.

Following the viewing in my washroom, I vow that I will not step in front of a mirror until my hockey helmet can be removed, which will be in twenty-four hours. It would be far too traumatic, if not downright depressing.

I had vowed to myself before the surgery that I was far too strong, healthy, and fit to go down the road of using high-powered drugs to get me through what I thought would be a little discomfort. No sir. Not me. I had already put the extra-strength Tylenol by my bed prior to leaving for the slaughter-oops! I mean surgery. Surely a woman of my strong will and fortitude could stand a little pain, right? Wrong!

During those first twenty-four hours, the Percocets became my very best friend.

I drugged myself into a permanent state of unconsciousness, only waking to have a sip of juice, use the washroom, or pop another of my happy pills. When twenty-four hours had passed, my husband, whom I had banished from my den of despair, came in to remind me that I could remove the bandages and take a much needed shower. I could literally smell the blood that was caked in my hair, and I recognized another smell that emanates from bodies that have been in a state of stress and terror-not exactly Irish Spring.

Although I desperately wanted freedom for my head and to feel the spray of hot, clean water on my body, I hesitated because this also meant that I would once again have to face the dreaded mirror. I was literally terrified to do so.

"Suck it up," I told myself. "You will look and feel so much better after a nice hot shower."

I turned on only enough lights to make sure I didn't accidentally impale myself with the scissors, and started to cut through the layers and layers of bandages around my head. They fell, caked in blood and other precious bodily fluids, into my bathroom sink. With a final snip, I was free! I walked over to the light switch and turned on the rest of the bathroom lights. Surely with the helmet gone, my face would resume some of its former characteristics, right? Dead wrong.

Have you ever seen Michael Jackson's "Thriller" video? It's really good! It is about all these zombies that come up from their graves to torment innocent humans. They pretty much spend the rest of the video terrorizing and scaring the crap out of people. Awesome! Well, I could have had the starring role as the best and scariest zombie of them all.

My skin was quite literally gray. The shelf that had formed from the bandages pushing down my brow remained bunched up like a shar-pei puppy. My cheeks, eyes, and neck were completely black and blue. In addition to the black and blue, my ears were an angry red, which made the thick black stitches that ran in front and behind them stand out in contrast. My neck and chin were so swollen that I had a pretty good impersonation of Winston Churchill going on. Upon further inspection, I could see that there were stitches over and above my ears going about two inches into my scalp. This was supposed to be a neck lift! Why do I have stitches going into my scalp?

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Face Liftby Karen Cooper Copyright © 2010 by Karen Cooper. Excerpted by permission.
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