Lemonade

As the mid-year point passed in 2010, I reflected on what a crazy year it had been up to that point. Recovering most of the year from two surgeries necessary to put my face back together after an accident in January, there had been plenty of down time to reflect on what one can reasonably expect from life and, to coin a cliché, how it is possible to turn lemons into lemonade.

After waking up on the kitchen floor, finding my trusty Bichon Frises on either side of me, not to mention the blood on them and on the floor, I remember the first view of myself in the mirror. While the memory is now vague with the passing of time, I recall my nose was sideways and my forehead almost obliterated with large lacerations. Without a conceivable notion of the miracles of plastic surgery, I chided myself on all the times I complained about my nose, longing for the opportunity to have it back the way it was. Standing there, observing the damage, I convinced myself that life would never be the same. With my characteristic determination to be independent, but more than likely attributable to being in shock, I washed up the blood from the floor before driving myself to the hospital.

Walking into the Emergency Room at John C Lincoln Hospital, I can only imagine what my appearance said to the nurses. Along that journey which led me to surgery the next day, I was shocked to find that the consensus of the hospital staff was that I had been beaten by a person I was unwilling to name. So much did they not believe me that they sent a social worker to speak to me. While I understand why they took that position, there is something distressing and humiliating about not being believed. Later at home recuperating, I wrote a short story, "Spiked Heels" in response. To appear in the inaugural edition of Literati coming in December 2010, the story is about a similar situation but where the presumed victim is anything but a victim.

In that hospital experience, what stands out the most are the nurses. Standing around me, comforting me, they kept assuring me that the plastic surgeon being called in to work on me was so good that there would be no scars. I'm skeptical most of time knowing that people, especially in their attempts to be kind, will say the most outrageous lies in order to comfort someone in distress. I remember one nurse leaning in toward me, pointing to her pristine forehead while telling me Dr. Prichard's stitch work was so good that no one could tell a nasty wound had ever been there. I thought, wow, I must be in big trouble for her to lie like that since even straining I saw no sign of a scar. Happily numb from the pain medication pumped into my veins, I thought how kind they were to take the trouble. Six months later, I have to laugh at that memory when I look in the mirror and see scars so faint they are undetectable under foundation.

As for my nose, well, I have an improved version of the original with a softening at the end that my mother would have been pleased to see. Her main disappointment in me (one of many) was my resemblance to my father's side of the family. If she is watching now from that lofty perch beyond the clouds, she would have the satisfaction of seeing that I now have her nose, amusing and ironic since the design had more to do with Dr. Prichard's creative interpretation and sculpturing techniques than anything else.

Looking back over the last six months, between the trauma, the reconstruction and repair of my face interjected into with tax season, friends and pets, if this experience has taught me anything it is the return of the joie de vie I had lost prior to the accident. With the realization that the fall I took while unconscious and without resistance could have killed me, I feel blessed for whatever or whoever is my guardian angel, but also for the kindness of all of those around me who showed patience and support through the worst of it. That is the best lemonade.