Skin Deep

39

That Saturday afternoon, Lanie Walker drove Dana to Dr. Monks’s clinic for her upper lid lift. The rhinoplasty would be scheduled at another time.

As instructed, she had nothing to eat or drink for six hours, and she felt some heightened anxiety as they rode to the clinic. Lanie prattled on as was her way, saying how the procedure was a piece of cake, like going to the dentist, and that it would be over before she knew it. Dana knew all that, and although it was irrational, she wished Steve were taking her. In spite of their difficulties, he had for so long been her source of comfort and support that she felt vulnerable. She also wished she had told him it was more than Botox she was getting.

Lanie accompanied her up to the suite. The receptionist and other staffers all said how great Lanie looked. When Dr. Monks came out they embraced. “Now you take good care of her.”

He smiled and promised he would. Before she left, she gave her cell phone number to Ms. Madlansacay to call when Dana was ready to be taken home.

Dana was taken into the prep room where Dr. Monks and the nurse practitioner explained the procedure. The operation would take less than an hour. They would do the upper eyelids first, then the Botox injections. Because she was young and healthy and the surgery was minor, they would not need an anesthesiologist. Dr. Monks would administer the local anesthetic himself.

“We’d like you to strip down to your underpants and put on a gown,” he said.

She nodded, but for some reason, that innocent doctor-patient statement rendered a slight self-consciousness. Maybe it was the way he looked at her or her awareness of how the green scrubs made his eyes blaze like gemstones.

“Maureen will set up an IV in your arm for Versed. That will put you in sedation.”

“So I’ll still be awake.”

“Yes, but in a twilight state—in fact, it’s quite pleasant and you won’t feel any discomfort. You also won’t remember any of the operation.”

She was not so concerned with discomfort as much as her own possible reaction. In her research she had read that while Versed created a pain-free state, it also lowered inhibitions. “Am I going to say a lot of dumb things that I’ll be embarrassed about later?”

He smiled with amusement. “I doubt it, Mrs. Markarian. It’s not a truth serum.”

She had imagined those comforting social barriers in the fore of her brain all but dissolving as she blurted out that she hoped he wasn’t gay or asked him if he ever got romantically involved with his patients.

He explained the procedure, patting her arm. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

When he and the nurse left, she undressed. Maybe it was her changing mind-set—her emerging “new self”—but she wondered what he was like behind the scrubs and professional sheen. What he was like as a man. She tried to imagine him being loose and casual, laughing with friends, banging his fists in frustration, making love. As she got ready, she wondered if maybe she was no different from all those other women who developed crushes on their cosmetic surgeons.

A few minutes later the nurse returned to take her blood pressure and insert the IV needle intake. She was then led across the hall to the operating room where Dr. Monks was getting ready.

“How you doing?” he asked as he slipped on his surgical gloves.

“I’m doing fine.”

“Good. A week from now you’ll be nearly healed and glowing with even more youth than you already radiate.”

The nurse slipped under her a grounding pad for the electrical coagulator. She then put on a blood pressure cuff and hooked her up to a heart monitor. When it was set in place, Dr. Monks repeated, “It’ll be over before you know it. All set?”

“Yes.” Remarkably she felt none of the anxiety she had brought with her. In fact, she glanced at the blips on the monitor, certain that her heart rate was not even elevated.

Dr. Monks’s smiling face filled her vision. In spite of the rough skin, it was a kind, serene, almost genderless face that reminded her of saints in Italian Renaissance paintings.

With a syringe he administered the sedative into the IV and patted her arm again. The nurse then pulled back her hair and put a paper hair net on her head. She washed her face with an antiseptic solution, patted it dry, then put on a drape so that only her face was exposed.

In a moment, Dana felt the sedative flood her brain and thicken, leaving her with a delicious drowsiness.

She heard Dr. Monks ask, “How you doing?”

And she heard herself respond, feeling her lips and tongue move, sensing the words as they dribbled out of her mouth. Although she thought she was in control and making sense, like a delayed echo the last thing she heard was her own voice: “I hope you like me.”

She closed her eyes and never saw his hand inject her with the Xylocaine and Epinephrine anesthetic. Nor did she feel the cut of the surgical knife nor hear the buzz of the coagulator as it cauterized the line of blood vessels as he removed the excess skin and small subcutaneous gobs of fat. Nor did she feel the tug of the stitches as they closed her up.

What she did recall was waking up in a recliner chair in the recovery room and feeling a tightness across her upper face and bleary vision. And Dr. Monks saying, “You did great.” And the touch of his hand on hers.