serendipity

A Minor Surgery

I looked through the pictures from her seventh birthday party and it wasn't there. I'm not sure exactly when it started growing, all I know is that it had grown from nothing to 5 millimeters in less than a year. Right on the bridge of her nose. 

Now five millimeters may not  sound very big, especially for those of you not actively familiar with the metric system, but believe me, when it's on your nose, five millimeters feels gigantic. When she looked down her nose, she could see it.

The pediatrician wouldn't touch it, of course. She sent us to a pediatric dermatologist for a consultation. The verdict? Probably benign but should be removed. It wouldn't go away by itself.

The dermatologist said she could remove the cyst. Which was good. But she would have to use a circular punch. This was bad. A circular punch is similar to a hole puncher and would leave a circular scar. I think a circular facial scar on the bridge of her nose would make a lousy present for a girl whose eighth birthday is just around the corner. 

My girl immediately put in a pitch for magic cream. She would be very good with magic cream. She would put it on every day, however many times a day we wanted. Magic cream now, please.

Or maybe she could just wash her face more often? It's important to wash our faces every day, maybe she got this by not washing her face often enough? "I'll do better" she promised. And then she looked at the doctor and me with purpose: No Matter What, We're Not Taking This Off with Needles or Anything Sharp.

Well honey, let's take it one step at a time. We won't take it off now. We won't take it off  until you say it's okay. Unless of course you never say it's okay and then I will have to tell you in my nicest mommy voice that we're taking it off now. But there is no such thing as magic cream. And sweetheart, you did not give this to yourself.

Next stop: the pediatric plastic surgeon.

Fast forward past several doctor's appointments, pre-screening phone calls, anesthesia phone calls, registration phone calls, a cancelled procedure (cancelled after she'd not eaten for 15 hours) and 20 different people asking "are you sure she isn't sick? No fever for the past 10 days?" and you get to surgery day. 

It's minor surgery he and I said to each other. Nothing to worry about. We promised her there would be no shots, nothing to hurt her. We promised her this because they promised it to us and this is a world famous children's hospital. They work super hard to not hurt the little children.

She woke up enthusiastic but soon became upset. She was very hungry and declared it "not fair" that she couldn't eat. She pouted during her antiseptic bubble bath and finally stamped her foot. She would not have the procedure. She would have breakfast.

We left for the hospital with wet hair.

Everyone at the hospital was super nice to her. The doctors and nurses spoke directly to her, not over her head, using simple terms she could understand. They explained what would happen before and after the surgery. One nurse went so far as to explain the IV. I still have mixed feelings about that. Although she would not be awake when they put in the IV, she would be awake when it came out. It was important, I think for her to know that the needle would not be in her skin, that it was a little plastic tube. She listened intently and was clearly torn on how to react. She absorbed the information, but did not like the idea of anything staying in her arm. When the nurse put the IV needle through her own shirt to demonstrate, I thought I would faint.  Xav looked at me and rolled his eyes. My girl looked for the exit.  She and I held onto our composure with fingernails. Xav played "Angry Birds."

She changed into very cute penguin hospital jammies and they put a tiny hospital gown on her stuffed bear. She and the bear got matching hospital bracelets and I could see that made her feel a lot better. She wasn't going through the experience alone. We walked across the hall and into the pre-op room. They covered her with one of those wonderful, pre-warmed blankets and gave her the TV remote. Things were looking up. 

The sleepy medicine did it's work quickly and after a few minutes she was slurring her words. At one point she tried to get out of bed, something the anesthesiologist had warned us about, but still surprised me. We talked her out of exploring the hospital and she settled down. We held hands and waited.

There was a tough moment when they wheeled her away but I can't tell you if it's because she wanted me to come with her or because she wanted to stay awake. She was teary-eyed and frustrated and hungry and nervous. I watched her glide away and promised to be there when she woke up.

They gave us a pager and took our cell phone numbers which was totally unnecessary. We weren't going anywhere. 

In the waiting room Maury Povich was on TV. I don't think I'd ever seen his show before and it was as awful as I suspected. Sitting there, unable to leave, I felt trapped. It was so loud. A promo flashed constantly at the bottom of the screen asking "Is your lover involved in secret orgies?"

Today's topic centered on women confronting the men who had cheated on them. How original. No one was married. Everyone had kids. Polygraph results were read. Secret videotapes of illicit kissing were shown. Can you spell entrapment? Fist fights. Security. Woman punching and kicking the air - strangely missing the target. Men slouching in their chairs before storming off stage - followed by cameras. How can this genre of TV not be dead yet? Who, besides the captives of the hospital waiting room, watches this garbage? And who are the people who go on the program? What a freak show.

Forty minutes pass until the board shows her status as out of the operating room and on her way to recovery. They will be calling us soon.

The surgeon talks to us in the private consultation room. Can I just say how nice it is to have a private consultation room? I don't care how "minor" the procedure is, when your kid is being operated on, and the doctor comes to talk to you, you need a moment without Maury and the other parents being able to see the tears springing to your eyes.

He says the magic words, "subcutaneous cyst. Benign."

The bandage will stay on for two weeks and the stitches will dissolve. She will have a pink scar on her nose for a year but over time it will fade to white and mostly disappear. No, the silicone scar patches don't really work. Don't worry, she'll heal. She is fine. Everything is fine.

We are escorted to the recovery room and we sit by her bed. Her face is splotchy and red. It takes her a long time to wake up. I call to her, gently. Again. Again. Again.

Sometimes it can take awhile to wake up, the nurses say. This is normal.

I watch the monitor display her heartbeats and respiration. I stroke her hair and call her name again. I use every pet name I've ever used for her: Pumpkin, Boo Boo, Pookie, Lambchop.

Come back. Come back. Come back.

Forty-five minutes later her eyes open. Twenty minutes later, somewhat reluctantly, she accepts an orange popsicle.  It takes time for her to rejoin the world.

She discovers the IV in her wrist and starts to fret about what will happen when it comes out. She wants it out now. But don't take it out yet. Is That Blood?

She is ready to leave. Instructions are given, along with a doctor's note for school. Do they still want those? Better to have one, just in case. 

Richard, the wheelchair guy, escorts us to the pharmacy. We get bored waiting for the meds and Richard teaches her how to operate the wheelchair. In three minutes she's a pro, turning circles and navigating the tiny pharmacy. She's feeling much better and it's clear that Richard can go.

Don't push me, she says. I can do it.

And she does.

 

Perfect Zombie Girls

They’re perfect. Wearing the Perfect Girl's workout uniform: sports bra and bicycle shorts.

No secrets there.

But they don’t like secrets, they’re proud of their bodies and don’t mind who knows it. They’re happy for you to look. But don’t gaze too long or they’ll immobilize you with their patented, Perfect Zombie Death Stare™, before dismissing you as if they never saw you in the first place. One has to follow protocol, after all.

The perfect girls have every right to be proud; they work really hard to look like this. Look at that one, she's working hard right now, stretching her perfect muscles, back turned to the audience.

You can almost never tell how old the perfect zombie girls are. Women who hop on the plastic surgery treadmill usually wait until their late 30s-40s to take the leap, realizing, as many do, that it’s not going to get any better from here. They do their best to stop the clock for as long as possible, settling for that frozen look I personally find rather freakish.

Botox'd to the max, their expressions, on the rare occasion they break them out, can be scary. Their eyes can't crinkle with mirth and their mouths visibly struggle, as if they know that smiling and frowning are what created this trouble in the first place. Their perfect zombie foreheads simply don't move anymore. They can no longer manage a good shrug. Are they happy? Sad? Who knows? (Who cares?) If they're taking lip injections, the lips are almost never the right size - have you noticed that? Even after they've "calmed down." The word blubber comes to mind - with all of its various definitions.

It is one thing to see these women in People magazine (oh hush, you read it too) and say to yourself "silly actresses!" but it's another thing to see the perfect zombie girls at the gym, out and among the real (sweaty) people. It must be terrible for them.

The irony is that no matter how old they are in real life, as soon as they go under the knife or the needle, they immediately look older. Why? Because only people who are fighting the clock will consent to that frozen tightness. Remember Brazil? 

Young people have soft, supple skin. They can smile, frown, scowl, laugh and make monkey faces without worrying about permanent damage. No, despite what your mother said, your face won’t freeze up if you keep making that face. Not without $20,000 it won’t.

The perfect zombie girls know the face is only part of the formula. They may need professional help to fix the above-the-shoulders problems but the shoulders themselves can be fixed with 2-3 hours of gym a day, plus a little vomiting.

Lifting weights and doing cardio 5-7 times a week, their arms never jiggle.  Their thighs are so trim from doing squats they have to call to each other from across the chasm of Lululemon bicycle pants.  Their backs are ripped, and pretty if you don’t mind a few ribs. A cannibal would have to be pretty hungry to eat one. You’d need at least a half dozen or so to make a decent meal.

Time is rarely kind to the zombie girls. Borderline anorexic, the look is more Death Camp Barbie (Collector's Edition) than genuine fashion model. They cover up with fake tans and makeup because their skin is often angry with them for not putting enough good stuff inside them. Basic stuff like food and water.  There is no surgical procedure that can compensate for the lack of fat and hydration that keeps our skins happy and looking youthful. How ironic that overweight people invariably look younger and healthier than the perfect zombie girls. (They live longer too.)

Warming up in the stretching room, I see another Perfect Zombie from the back of the room. I usually mock them on sight, but there is something different about this one. I look her over: Great legs? Check. Not a drop of cellulite. Perfect arms? Check. Just look at those shoulders, she can wear any shirt she wants. Garbed in the perfect zombie girl workout uniform? You betcha. All 10% of her body fat. Uh oh, Karen. You’re staring again. If you’re not careful Medusa is going to catch you and turn you into a statue. And you need to lose another 10lbs before you’ll make a good statue.

The Perfect One turns around and I have to contain myself. She's at least sixty, quite possibly older. Wearing little makeup, she shows no obvious signs of plastic surgery. Her face looks positively human, even friendly. 

She's not a zombie after all! She's not even perfect. Well, not the way the zombies would define it. But for me, she's perfect in her imperfection. Her skin is plump and healthy looking, with some lines appropriate for a life well-lived. She looks as if she actually eats without vomiting. She's built like me, or rather, like I would be if I were 10x more fit. She's a strong, smiling senior citizen who could kick my ass around the block. 

I decide she is worthy of fandom. 

After years of going to the gym and staring at women I will never resemble, I’ve finally stumbled upon a role model, nay an idol, I can strive for. Healthy, strong and fit but far from zombie perfect, she is my new definition of perfection. 

 

so here's the deal:

I don't care if you want to drive faster than me.

Go.

Go like the wind.

Look, I've given you the fast lane.

It's all yours.

You are free.

With my blessing.

 

But.

 

If you want to be in front of me,

You'd better go faster.

I mean actually faster.

Not the minuscule amount of faster you get from simply being in front of me. 

 

Because the seventy-two inches between you and me, doesn't actually count as faster.

I'm just saying.

 

Those seventy-two inches you took?

You've got them.

For as long as you insist,

On not driving faster.

In front of me.

 

 

The Changeling

She's moody.

Her eyes fill up with tears one minute and are laughing the next. She can switch from cruel prankster to loving sister in the blink of an eye.

She's figuring out how to get under my skin. Experimental, she's mean to me, then sincerely remorseful. Then amazed she was able to get to me and slightly proud of herself.

She steals my lipstick.

Her face is a mirror of ever-changing emotions. Look at her and you see smiles and lightness. Then serious contemplation. Sadness. Goofiness. Need. Joy. I never know which version I'll get.

She pulls me close and squeezes the breath out of me. "I'm never letting you go, Maman."

She walks away from me, silent and tearful. Shrugging. "What's wrong, my baby?" I still call her "Baby."

"Nothing."

The woman's answer.

Code for everything she feels and can't say.

A girl again, hiding candy in her bed and torturing her sister. Sleeping with dozens of stuffed animals. Reading about vampires and greek gods. Pondering the ever-shifting social dynamics of middle schoolers. Wanting everything and nothing, all at the same time.

She's almost 13.