So many people have said they can’t tell the difference between my old (mangled, deformed, shockingly awful) nose, and my new (vastly improved, much more useful, both aesthetically and in every other way) nose. But then that’s the point. That’s good surgery bitches, live it – learn it.
Actually, right after I got the bandages off, a minor friend asked if I’d had a face lift. That’s a compliment. Of sorts.
Scott Capurro
GT
March 2009
Next day, post-op:
It’s done. I’ve been cut. My vanity embarrasses me, but my doctor told me the growth would only grow stranger. Soon the nostril would be blocked, I wouldn’t be able to breath properly, and I’d die in my sleep. Actually, the death part I added, but we all die. We’re all the same. We all distrust our noses. Or is that the painkillers talking?
I woke up during the surgery. Twice. Unexpectedly, there was a second man standing over me. Not only standing. Digging. Both doctors looked as though they were scraping away at my face with putty knives. They were leaning forward, grimacing, like it was hard labour. I felt a great deal of pressure against my cheek bones, but my hands were tied to the table, I couldn’t move, so I moaned, “I can see you. I can feel that.”
When I met with my doc this morning, I asked if I’d dreamt the assistant.
He said, oh no, that’s my technician.
Right. And were you both scraping away?
“Might have been.”
Weird the trauma one must go through in order to return to whatever one was. Or thinks he was. I’m not sure if the surgery was successful. I’m still bandaged like the invisible man. I really thought it would be a ’slice and plaster’ kinda thing, where I’d be dancing and drinking at Daddy’s in the Castro that evening. But I’m not going anywhere. Apparently there were more obstructions than had been presumed.
Typical. I love building walls. Then walking into them.
Actually, I went out for a meal last night with my sister, and if there were anyone that enjoys seeing me bandaged, it would be her. Not that she’s malicious, but I have won a lot of arguments.
On the way into some Vegan Trendy Hell restaurant chosen for proximity’s sake, a guy skateboarding by said “Skateboarding?” He’d assumed I’d injured myself flying off four wheels.
I said, “No, I’m 46.”
His reply: “So am I.”
Me: “Then stop skateboarding!”
San Francisco is full of people seeking their youth. Either through baggy shorts or sinoplasties, we want back what we think we missed out on. I’m viewing a photo of myself at 19, so sweet, fresh, girley; and one of myself this morning, 27 years later, battered and bruised. It reminds me my nose is a bridge to nowhere. I can’t go back.
Two days later:
I’m still bandaged and drugged. I’m on steroids to reduce the swelling, and my apartment has never been cleaner. I’ve cleaned it three times, starting from three different angles because dust is clever.
Spoke with my doc today. He has a lovely, melodious, reassuring voice. I’m honored to have shared a putty knife with him. Anyway he offered more surgical details. Secure a barf bag, if you haven’t already.
He started by filleting my nose, then peeling it back. Look at me, I’m a trout. Finally. Then he scraped grooves into one side of my septum – the lucky side, obviously – so it would bend easier.
“You know, the way you do with a piece of cardboard.”
Yeah, whatever hot stuff. Then my septum, which was pointing one centimetre to the left, he bent straight. There goes my French film career. He then secured my septum in place by sowing it to the bone behind my upper lip. Hence the stitches in my gums, which I thought had magically appeared because I’m – what? – evolving.
Then – oh yeah, there’s more – he grafted cartilage onto my air holes, where bone had grown over. That sounds dirty, which I like. Of course he had to GRIND down the bone first. Hence the pressure on my cheekbones that woke me up, further reducing my dignity because I peed.
Immediately after the procedure, I demanded I be allowed to piss some more. Lots. The nurse called me at home to suggest I get tested for diabetes.
“You urinated before, during and after the surgery. Is that normal?”
You mean, do I pee a lot when I’m having face work done? Who wouldn’t? It’s so exciting to be renewed. Fact is, BITCH, I’ve never had work done. If I had, do you think I’d voluntarily resemble Kevin Bacon?
Actually, this surgery seems to have worked. I’m inhaling easier, and soon, once my nose is unpacked, it’s off to a gay sauna, to see if all this has worked to my cock-attracting advantage.
If only breathing clearly were enough!