The following conversation just occurred between a plastic surgeon and me:
Doc: What did we discuss about your skin last time?
Me: That I had nine surgeries?
He places the tips of his fingers on my hair line, looking inquisitively.
Me: Seriously, I had three dermabrasions in the 80s – the old fashion kind, where they use a metal sander to grind your skin…
Doc: I know, hon
Me: Then scar excision, where they dug out the deep craters and sewed up my holes…then burned off those scars with a C02 laser…
He pulls the skin on my cheeks slowly back to my ear lobe.
Me: …then another laser, then another..
Doc: Here’s the thing. Look at the difference.
He hands me a mirror and I see it; the scars on my cheeks are all but disappeared.
The next five minutes filled me with equal parts hope, excitement and deflation. I was told liposuction under my chin and an upper eye lift would be thrown in to his proposed mini-face lift.
Doc: This will make all the difference in the world.
Difference? There needs to be a difference?
He tells me the cost, adds the fact that there is no interest for twelve month payments, and gives me that look.
I grew up with that look – it says “you poor dear – is there anything the doctors can do?”
Me: Okay. I’ll think about it.
As I walked back to my car, I tried to keep it together. I struggled to climb back to myself, over years of mental road blocks and anguish. I pulled out of the driveway and let out a deep sigh.
This is never going to end…
The truth is, if I had the money, I’d sign up for the magical cheek pulling procedure tomorrow. But I don’t. So where does that leave me?
I stopped at a red light on my way back to the office and looked in the rear view mirror at my cheeks.
All those surgeries. All that pain. To come this far, and have someone point out to me how much better it could look – it’s heart wrenching.
Getting off the elevator in my office, I received a lovely compliment from a co-worker I’ve not seen in a while.
“Look at you! You look fantastic!”It was at that moment I realized I had a choice. I could allow my doctor’s comments and suggestions to pull me down, or take it for what it was; a surgeon who saw an opportunity to help make my skin as perfect as it could be – and also to make money.
I thanked my friend for the compliment and smiled all the way back to my desk.
So tell me – would you consider going under the knife?