This week, I met with an eye surgeon up at Hopkins in Baltimore. For their sake, I will leave out their name, because it was nothing short of a nightmare. I had talked with my eye surgeon at UCLA last week about some pretty cutting-edge procedures to accomplish my goals, and wanted to see if there were any bases I had not covered. I explained this to the Hopkins doctor, and they, without actually physically examining me, proceeded to tell me that I should just keep my eye closed and safe.
Safe for what? I asked. If nobody had any intentions of opening it ever again, why the fuck should I worry about keeping it safe? It was at this point that they referred to my right (closed) eye as a good ‘spare tire’ in case anything ever happened to my left eye. What the fuck? A spare tire? Most people get two premium, top-of-the-line, formula-1 tires, and I get one and a semi-functional spare? Are you kidding me?
So, in response to them and basically any other negative person that I encounter throughout my life, I say fuck off. Thanks for playing. Bye. No, I’m not bucking medical advice- I had already been told that there is, indeed, hope for my future as a four-eyes. And I intend to wear the shit out of whatever ugly-ass glasses I have to wear when I’m old.
The past couple of weeks, I haven’t been feeling all that great about my face as it currently is. There was a professional photographer taking photos at my graduation, and when I saw them online, I hated them. I couldn’t put my finger on why, so then I started to feel guilty. I had just had this big, fancy surgery at the big, fancy hospital to resolve this. Why was I feeling like this?
Regardless of the reason behind me hating those photos, the fact that I cannot tolerate a single photo of my COLLEGE GRADUATION is heartbreaking. That day meant so much to me, and I deserve the right to love the photos and how I looked in them. Don’t I?
I also was able to follow up with my face surgeon this week. Before the appointment, the gravity of my aforementioned realization hit me. No, it’s not a self-esteem issue. No, it’s not a societal issue. All I want is to feel proud of who I am and the way I look, even on a day that has nothing to do with what’s on the outside. And I wasn’t able to do that because I can now confidently say that the surgery failed. It was never going to get the old me back, but it didn’t even come close to where it should have.
When I met with my surgeon, he willingly admitted this. He said that I fell into the 5% (lucky me) that have a lack of lift like mine. He was just as disappointed as I was, but only for a moment. Then it was time to fix it. He was equally as outraged at my experience with the eye doctor as I was, and made sure that I was aware of my options for my eye as best as he could (not really his territory). There’s a nerve-transfer-and-muscle-connection surgery they can do for my eye to help it blink just like they can do to my mouth to help it smile.
So what we are going to do is transfer two nerves; one for my eye muscle, and one for my mouth muscle. While they are in there, they will also tighten the muscle transfer I already had to get immediate results that can tide me over until the new nerves are ready to receive their muscles, about a year. Maybe this won’t happen right now, but maybe it will. It shouldn’t matter to you, dear reader, because it is my fucking face.
I really and truly appreciate the love and support of my friends and family throughout this process, and I apologize that I have born this burden in silence.