Hammer, Pick, & Plaster

It was 24 hours later that she did begin to feel the pain in her head and the scars on her face. A hard cast placed in a tight triangle around a bone that had been broken and drilled soft. The array of colors her undereye turned began with a purplish black. Deep red filled the dripping gauze the first 48 hours. Bags of fluid of the pools of blood accumulated not only on her undereye but puffed out her eyelids. It was difficult to see from blurry vision and heavy lids that didn’t even open under the weight in the lying position she remained in. The discoloration traveled like a thick eyeliner and split over the crease of the entire eye. The frequent naps were interrupted by ice compresses and doses of Oxycontin.

Like change of autumn the shades on her eyes changed color over the course of two weeks in bed against three pillows behind her bandaged head. The fluid piled like a heap of raked leaves and stared on with the hope of further healing and a speedy recovery. The dark purple-red bruises faded to a pea soup-like shade of green, like remains of the vegetable paste scraped across the bottom of a dinner bowl.

As if a sunset of her time of rest, her sockets and cheeks faded to a golden yellow and finally the normal skin tone. The cast was removed one week later with only slight discoloration. A scar between the nostrils and along different points of her hairline glowed bright crimson for the rest of the month. She later learned they were easy enough to hide with makeup. Once vanity is reinforced with enhancement of physical beauty, the ego is temporarily satisfied. Instant gratification can only do so much, especially on a body part that causes such distress or dysphoria. Part of our culture shuns cosmetic modification as a false attribute that a person should not alter and learn to embrace. Embracing those flaws strengthens morality and pushes away shallow narcissism.

It’s difficult to celebrate the corrections one can make with possible guilt instilled in procedures in plastic surgery. Skin has plasticity for a reason. But that same plasticity carved and stuffed can turn rigid both on the body and the mind. Over time, all things have limits. The stitches around her face ensured healing of many incisions, but the part of her that needed spackling was inside. She was terrified by the unrecognizable monster that looked back at her and even more uncertain of what the supposed butterfly would look like once its cocoon was shed. She felt she would never fly again.

Her mother brought her home from the hospital after an overnight’s stay of surveillance. The blank room sliced in and out of her conscious view and then spun on wheels attached to the wheelchair spinning her out into the sunlight of the parking lot all in one quick blur. She didn’t remember getting in the car but after that, the nurse retreated indoors. The blue florescent lighting was all too immediately thawed by the sun’s glare on the windshield.

“I don’t mean to be nosy or anything, honey,” her mom joked, “but how do you feel?”

She giggled weakly and nodded back to her as a sign of contentment.

“I feel good, just like an old woman, I guess,” she responded, closing her eyes as they pulled out of the clinic’s parking lot.

“Well, something tells me you don’t look it,” she reminded her.

“I wish traffic would go faster,” she whined as her mother stopped at a red light.

“We just left the hospital. I’m not trying to make us go back,” she pointed out.

Her daughter placed an elbow on the door and lightly cupped her right hand over her eyes.

“Do you not feel good?” she asked, accelerating as the light blinked green.

The irritated laugh which rang out stung her as she never expected something like this from her daughter. Either the pills or the pain was talking and its exasperated voice reminded them of the long months of recovery ahead.

“No, I don’t really feel good, honestly,” she concluded with a hint of apologetic intent.

The next few days marked further hibernation cycles. Cold sleeps breaking only for a time of brief summers warmed with tall glasses of water, short bottles of pills, and long stretches of the sweats. Hardly a fattening up for winter for she still started to feel antsy after being inside the whole first week. She looked at every old photo of herself from before the operation up until the night before on her phone. Some much longer than others.

The way her doctor described the aesthetic of the human face was surprisingly complex. The elastic nature of not only the skin but the cartilage of the face and the effect of breaking things while building other parts. Drills contoured the facial bones to create a smoothing effect to the features.

“Is that a real person?” she asked him, pointing to the strangest model of a human skull she had ever seen. It stood on a stilt under a bell jar on his desk. The bones were all divided throughout the entire face stopping just at the hairline, all connected by delicately thin arms of metal, suspended out in a projection-like fashion.

“Oh yes,” he replied briskly.

“I got this model at the medical academy I attended after college in Italy,” he explained.

“Oh wow,” she replied, impressed.

She knew she was in good hands with this man as she eyed his several board certifications nailed neatly on the only wall without bookshelves. Two plaques sat on either side of the doctor’s head like a little angel to his right and a little devil to his left. Their voices overpowered my ears and drowned out the man’s voice as he asked her about any medications and past trauma to her face if any.

“Are you really planning to spend thousands of dollars for the simple cause of vanity?” the glowing white angel accusingly questioned her.

“Don’t listen to her,” the horned counterpart hissed.

“You’ve been wanting this for so long,” she continued “and it is your body. You deserve to be comfortable in it.”

“You’re beautiful in your own unique way,” the angel said, “and you shouldn’t waste all those savings.”

“I’m sure you’ll need time to think, but when do you plan on having all this done?” came an interjection from a male voice.

This was a week and half before she was strapped to a rigid dental-like chair and sliced open in front of several complete strangers. Different folds of skin were cut and pulled over like a hard-boiled egg to reveal the truest form of nudity while she was fast asleep. Her facial structure was completely exposed for proper genetic modification.

“As soon as possible,” she replied quickly before shooting the now normal plaques above his head a now unnoticed glance of triumph. All the bickering she heard in her head was finally silenced. Her angel and her demon of consciousness no longer had an argument of her own vanity. It was as if each went back to Heaven and Hell to leave her with the date the receptionist gave her at the front desk. That date along with her free will. Autonomy surely felt lonely.

“We will see you again after your blood work in one week.” She smiled a hot pink lip at her.

Leaving, she noticed how the nurse and secretaries in the office were intimidatingly observant. They watched her every move and studied her face behind pink eyeshadowed eyes as if to create a mental before image in their mind. They seemed to be enjoying the game of find the flaw and see it disappear later.

“Is there a lab by the clinic?” she asked the receptionist.

“It’s actually right up the block after you turn onto the street the clinic’s on,” she explained.

“Oh ok, that’s perfect-” But it was too late to stop her sentence when she did manage to catch herself. She attempted to cover it up with a quick farewell.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you all again shortly after. Thank you so much,” she said genuinely.

“You’re so welcome, my dear. I can’t wait to see the new you!”

One slow week and a long needle later, she walked into the clinic with no makeup wearing a baggy sweat suit as instructed. Her mom waited patiently in the waiting room for the entire six hours.

The same nurse greeted her in the pink makeup and a new accessory she assumed which was only worn on operating days; a mint-green medical cap loosely around her blonde hair like a beret.

“We’re just gonna step into the adjacent room to take a before picture,” she explained, leading her past the double doors to the right and into a small exam area with a white passport-like screen on the wall. As she turned on the digital camera, the patient looked around from her post in front of the blank background. There was a small cot lined with parchment paper in the corner, a sink lined by a cabinet covered in neatly organized medical supplies like topical creams and hand tools. One generic chair sat by the cot and further official documents with her surgeon’s name printed in gold calligraphy hung from the wall. The room was similar enough to her pediatrician’s office where she went for checkups since last year.

“Ok, finally got this thing to turn on,” her nurse said triumphantly.

“Just stand in the center of the curtain and look straight at me,” she instructed.

She followed suit for a left and right profile after the first shot. The photos would serve as the only proof that the end product was any different than before. The flash made her realize how after all this was done, a camera or even a set of staring eyes would be nothing to be afraid of anymore. The thought made her nervous face melt into a faint smile of relief.

“Do you want to see them?” the nurse asked looking up from the viewfinder.

“I think I’ll just wait until the comparison is ready, too,” she admitted in a satirically sheepish manner. They knew her secret here.

Placing the camera on the counter by the sink, she asked the patient to sit down where she was comfortable. She then produced a butterfly syringe connected to a pallid yellow hose.

“This will be your IV for the anesthesia,” she informed her.

“Alrighty,” came a cracking response. She slowly penetrated her subject’s left hand between the bones connecting to her middle and index fingers and held it down with a slip of white medical tape. Her final surrender to insecurity was made with a flag of adhesive fabric. She was told by the time she’d wake up she’d be in the recovery room with the needle swapped out with nothing more than a wad of gauze.

“Are you nervous?” the nurse asked.

“I didn’t think I would be, but now that I’m here and it’s happening, like...” Her voice broke genuinely.

“Oh honey,” she whined, placing her cold, sterile hand on her shoulder comfortingly. Going to the cabinet she tip-toed to reach a small glass bottle on the middle shelf and held it up to show her.

“Your room should be ready any minute, but I could give this to you while you wait.” Brandishing the Valium in front of her eyes, she accepted wholeheartedly.

In less than five minutes after the first syringe was emptied into her, she followed the nurse into operating room across the hall. Counting back from one hundred once strapped down to a narrow chair she’d normally see at a dentist, she only reached 93 when she began to fall. She fell from the surrounding room filled with machines she wasn’t completely sure would or would not be used on her. Even the sweet smell similar to coffee faded; the gas coming out of the mask over her nose and mouth slipped from her face. She was then unconscious for about a fourth of the day.

The hazy reawakening was an uncomfortable transition as she opened her eyes. All the machines which were crowded close to her lined the far side of the wall, as if in a mock wake for her former face. Bandages mummified her entire head and one of her arms. A blanket replaced her leg and chest straps.

“Hello, Sleeping Beauty,” the only remaining person, her nurse from earlier, said.

She was removing scrubs and partially bloodied gloves to get ready to wash her hands in the industrial-sized sink. She still wore the medical mask over the pink makeup similar to the mask which had supplied her sedative which lulled her to sleep only hours before. It was all over.

“Hi,” she heard her raspy response.

“I’m gonna go get your mother, okay?” She drew the last word out in a cooing whisper, as if speaking to a toddler.

Nodding once in understanding, the nurse disappeared while not necessarily exiting. The double doors across from her sounded as they swung open after a blink of a newly bruised eye. Almost immediately four hands slapped loudly back in. Her eyes were still closed when her mother asked if she was awake.

She brought it on herself to greet the two women in the room. It was like opening a broken garage door by herself as her eyelids slid slowly back up into her freshly carved and increasingly stiff skull. She was assured she looked just like a jack-o-lantern smiling with a candlelit stare. After croaking the same word again, her mother approached her with the question she was not prepared to hear so many times after this moment:

“How are you feeling?” she asked ever so close to the white egg poking out from the wool blanket. Her mother stroked her hair and even though it comforted her, she still felt like the shells would pick apart at any contact.

“Is this a dream?” she managed.

“If we can get her up, Mrs. Williams, she could be wheeled to the dining hall for something to eat since she’s been fasting. Or just for something to do other than lie down,” the nurse suggested.

“Oh ok,” Mrs. Williams replied gratefully, “can I help get her in the chair?”

“I am getting hungry,” the girl remembered, taking her mother’s hand.

She was soon put into the wheelchair with a smaller blanket and a box of tissues. The procession down the hall was uneventful other than the blurry sign adjacent to the operating room indicating in words more or less that her doctor had already moved on to his late morning patient.

“Good morning!” a hair-netted woman said sweetly to the two without the slightest recognition of the bandages and casts on her face.

“What can I get for you two?” she asked as the wheels came to a halt in the a la carte cafeteria style line.

“I’ll take the tuna melt with a fruit cup,” Mrs. Williams told her, looking intently at the menu. Even the smell of food could not reach past the entrance of the blood encrusted nostrils. No matter, for the lunch lady reminded her:

“I’m afraid since you’re just out of the OR that you’ll have to be on liquids for now, honey.”

The sympathetic groan from her mother had about the same volume as the one from her stomach. It wasn’t too big of a deal for her but the ice cream sandwich poster behind the sneeze guard definitely didn’t help.

“Could I have a Sprite with extra ice chips, please?” she croaked.

Their prewrapped and canned meals were dispersed with latex gloves and a calm smile. Mrs. Williams pushed her daughter to one of the all empty tables in the far corner of the room as she carried the tray and Kleenex in her lap. With the wheels locked and the tuna out of the Ziploc, the girl banged her straw against the table and took a big gulp of the tasteless but refreshingly cold soda.

“Do you want to go to Books a Million after your follow up next week?” Mrs. Williams asked.

“Eh,” she responded dryly, “Not if that girl from my middle school still works there.”

“Oh, that’s right, she does,” her mother confirmed.

“What about the used bookstore, then?”

“It’s in that area, sure,” they agreed.

“The doctor told me I could wear sunglasses after a week,” the girl told her mother.

So, they would go to the store after more light-colored soda would be vacuumed into a mouth constantly dry from lingering anesthesia. Bruise oil that looked like honey would be poured onto her palms like breakfast waffles and applied to her face, leaving the skin taut.

“You’re going to be scared at first,” the doctor admitted.

“Just remember the skin and face will constantly be evolving over the next year, but swelling will go down after only a few months.”

So, the caterpillar waited in her chrysalis of gauze, every cliché stuck to her changing form. While she slept, she had the same dream. It had the visual appeal of a nightmare but the aspect of it that was truly scary to her was how calmly she accepted what was happening during. It started as though she were waking up in her bedroom bathed in broad daylight despite the analog alarm shining the time was a quarter past two in the morning. She would be stirred by the urge to scratch her breasts like the morning before her period.

Her areolas screamed at her for the attention of her nail beds. The sound of itching soon filled the room, growing louder and louder with still no promise of hitting snooze and becoming satisfied. Her chest never bled but she noticed the flakes after what seemed with hours of dozing and scratching. The alarm clock marked the time of dawn without the risen effort of the sun confirming the nocturnal reality which kept her room dim. Her skin was falling off her breasts in glittering sediments comparable to mica in the Carolinas. Delicate pieces of circular shavings matching the same undertone of her skin.

She woke up feeling numb after despite hours of violent swipes back and forth on the sake of her cuticles. No pain shot through her as her B cups slowly crumbled to an A. Her hands would feel sticky and damp and the belated fear climaxed finally to terror. The light was too far out of reach to investigate and all the while her hands were now much too busy. The dampness grew to a streaming wet flow and a metallic tinge rose to her nose. With an entire bra size down to nothing but dust and fatigue weighing her eyelids, she acknowledged that she wasn’t able to smell in her waking life. She had to wake herself up once again.

She rubbed her chest in circular motions, trying to calm her mind and her body and wincing in the process. Anxiety was the color of neon red in this present state. “Open” sign; glowing through the pallor of a seedy hour. She looked down at herself still caressing like an excited narcissus loving nothing but the very own touch of her hand.

Out of the red glow a deep pink illuminated different sections of her bed. All she saw as her eyes adjusted were her white sheets stained rose from the mysterious light that was trying to shed an answer on what was happening.

She saw raw, broken skin shredded like wrapping paper on her exposed sternum. Despite the horror of the image, she was shocked that the liquid wasn’t blood for absolutely none flowed from her. Even in the light, her muscles and tissues looked purple and oyster-grey like the flesh of a cold elderly person.

The itching had suddenly ceased. She sat in humid dismay as she propped herself up and tried to steady her breathing. Daring to look down was not at the moment an option. One could only wait. For some reason, again she felt little fear. She somehow fell back asleep finally acknowledging the occurrence as a reverie. She did not dream for the remainder of the morning. She woke up feeling perfectly fine and dry as a bone. Sleep came back a few times until eleven in the morning. She got up and waited to observe herself until after using the restroom. She faced the mirror and saw before her two normal, all-in-one-piece breasts sitting on a blood-free chest. Nothing of it was shredded, molted, or falling off altogether.

The snake felt cool as she had shed a level of her past identity subconsciously. The old skin came off of her in a shell she was more than happy to leave behind. The satisfaction from the dream was just as fleeting as the dream itself and quickly faded as she started doing her makeup for the day.