Skin Deep

60

“Hey, Dana, nice eagle beak.”

The words were the witless comeback for some offense she could no longer recall and hurled by little Billy Conroy, a mean kid she hadn’t seen since junior high. But she had dated the calendar from that moment a quarter of a century ago. Eagle beak—a dumb insult on tap, but it left a scab that she had picked at every day until Lanie drove her to Aaron Monks’s that Sunday morning.

In reality, self-consciousness about her nose had predated Billy Conroy. For as long as she could remember, her nose never looked right for her face. It was too big and looked nothing like the cute noses of other girls. By the time she was in her middle teens, she was convinced her nose made her unattractive. That belief crossed with anger and guilt—anger that she had inherited her father’s Attic feature; guilt for resenting it. Her mother had a perfectly normal nose, so why hadn’t she gotten that? she had lamented. Her mother quietly sympathized. Her father offered only useless consolation. “It gives you character”—an expression equivalent to “She has a great personality”—a feeble attempt to make people with a problem feel better as in, your scar, bald head, birthmark, gap between your teeth, mole, suffering, financial destitution…gives you character. She had enough character, she had told her father. What she wanted was to be pretty.

To make matters worse, her father had claimed that she should be proud of her nose for its ethnic identity. Back in Thessaloníki it would have bespoken a noble heritage, serving as a major asset of her dowry. That would have been funny were he joking. But part of him was serious—the part that didn’t accept the mobile and fluid society of America, where it was not an asset to have a big Greek nose. On the contrary, all the noses in her teen magazines were adorable little pixie pugs that made her hate her own all the more. Likewise, the most popular girls were those with “reasonable” noses. Unfortunately, this was not Thessaloníki but the image-frantic American Northeast, where the proboscis was not an erogenous zone.

When she heard about cosmetic surgery it was like discovering the key to the magic kingdom. Something could actually be done. Not only could a surgeon transform her face but her damning self-perception. The more she researched the subject, the more she realized it was no big deal. Women got nose jobs all the time. Here was an alternative to a life of eagle beakness.

By her senior year, she had come to regard her nose as a birth defect—a kind of homely second self. Cosmetic surgery, it followed, would be the way to kill that self, that half that imperiled her potential for confidence. When she raised the issue, her mother empathized. But her father was against it: cosmetic surgery was an act of vanity, something that a good Catholic girl should be above. Besides, he was already paying thousands of dollars for her college education. If she wanted a nose job, she could get it when she was gainfully employed.

By the time she reached college, she moved beyond emotional desperation and accepted her face. It helped that she was lean, athletic, and attractive. She was also preoccupied with her studies. She had met Steve, who loved her the way she was. After graduating college she took her teaching job at Carleton High, which was barely gainful employment. So she tucked away her Sleeping Beauty fantasies and grew up around them.

As she looked back, it occurred to her that in all their years together—five years of dating and twelve of marriage—Steve never seemed to notice that she even had a nose.

Steve had called while she was getting ready for Lanie to pick her up. He had said that he wanted to get together, that he had had a change of heart and wanted to talk. He was off the booze and was ready to commit to having a child. She had told him that this was not the right time. She was on her way to getting her nose fixed—something she had wanted to do for more than half her life. And that for the next few days she’d be in no condition to take visitors or to think beyond postop recovery. He said he’d call to see how she was doing. Before he hung up, he asked, “Do we still have a chance?”

“This is not the right time to ask.”

“You mean you want to see what life is like with your new face.”

“I really have to go.”

“Are we still in the trial stage of separation?”

“Yes.”

“Then please explain the trial part because I’m beginning to see it as a false dawn.”

“Steve, I don’t want to discuss this now.”

“Just give me some idea where we stand.”

“I want to be on my own for a while.”

“Because you want me to help pay for your nose job before you file for divorce.”

“No, that’s not the reason.”

“Then what is?”

After a long moment of silence, she said, “I’m not ready to end it with you, okay.”

“Because we have something that you don’t want to break?”

“Yes.”

“I’m putting words in your mouth, and that’s not what I want to hear.”

“Jesus, Stephen.”

“Then tell me.”

“I’m enjoying my freedom.”

“Then why is this still a trial separation and not the real thing?”

“Because I still want you in my life but I’m not ready to get back. Okay?”

“Well, I’m here when you are.”

She heard the relief in his voice. “Thanks.”

Dana and Lanie arrived at Dr. Monks’s clinic an hour before the operation. Lanie said hello to the staff then left. She’d return in two hours to bring Dana home.

As with the previous procedure, Dana had fasted since midnight. She wasn’t hungry because her stomach felt as if a flock of birds were fluttering around inside. Dr. Monks came out wearing a white smock and a bright smile. He introduced her to the nurse assistant and the anesthesiologist. He then brought her into his office and closed the door.

“How you doing?”

“I’m a bit nervous.”

“Of course, you are. It’s only natural.” He took her hand. “It’s a big step and something you’ve been anticipating for years, and now you’re here. Every patient goes through it.”

“I’m sure.”

“You’re going to be fine,” he continued. “And in a few weeks you’re going to have the face you’ve always wanted. You’re going to look great.”

She nodded. His cool touch and soothing manner were geared toward a calming effect. But in truth her need to look great was something in the past, when it was important to be socially marketable. Now she just wanted to look younger to be professionally marketable. Yet, ironically, she had let herself be convinced that she needed a Vogue nose. Some things don’t die. Although she could hear her father’s consolation (It gives you character) and Steve’s vow (I like you the way you are), here she was at the cusp of a transformation she had been yearning for since Billy Conroy. For the last time, her hand went to her face and she fingered the hump.

Dr. Monks handed her the computer-generated postop images—front and profile. “Just tell yourself: ‘No more big, fat, Greek nose.’”

She nodded.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

The nurse assistant brought her to a changing room where she put on a hospital gown then lay down on a gurney while an IV was attached to her arm. The doctor returned with the anesthesiologist and nurse. They reviewed the procedure. As was the current practice, she would not be put under general anesthesia. Instead, she would be sedated into a twilight state and local anesthesia would be applied. She would feel no pain since the interior of her nose would be numbed. All she would experience was the pressure of the hammering on the chisel. She might also hear the cracking of bone. But the sedative would dull her perceptions, and since the operation would be under the focal point or her eyes, she would see nothing but the blur of hands.

The procedure would take about an hour and a half, after which a splint would be put on her nose with a soft web roll and bandages across her forehead and cheeks. For the swelling, she would apply a cold compress lightly across her eyes for the first twenty-four to thirty-six hours. There would be some light blood discharge from her nostrils, but only for a day or so. After a week she’d come into the office for Dr. Monks to remove the dressing and check up on her progress.

The bruising on the upper part of her face would last for two to three weeks. The swelling would no longer be noticeable after three. Then final definition would set in, although her nose would be considerably smaller. For discomfort, he prescribed Tylenol with codeine.

After the briefing, the nurse assistant applied the IV drip and rolled her into the operating room. Dr. Monks was wearing his green scrubs and smiling down at her. Overhead was a bank of lights. To her left were the anesthesiologist and nurse assistant.

“How you doing?” Monks asked.

“Fine,” she said, feeling the drowsiness flow through her like lava.

“Good.” He smiled down on her warmly.

She fixed on that smile and drifted into the twilight.