Face It

In the late 90's, while I was finishing up college, I had some health problems. For no discernible reason, my face began swelling up like a giant hive. It would puff up red and hot for a day or two. Over the following week, it would shrink back down to regular size. While it was shrinking, my skin turned hard. It acted like plastic that had been heated, expanded and then cooled into a solid shell. As the swelling began to subside, the skin that made up my hideously bloated face was suddenly too big. Being rigid, it couldn't easily contract back down to the size it had been before the swelling started. The surface of my face started to wrinkle and pucker and crack. My forehead, chin and cheeks all jostled for position on the shrinking surface that no longer boasted room enough for everybody. During this stage, my eyes looked as if they were surrounded by a plateful of pink scrambled eggs.

Whether it was growing or contracting, my faced looked pretty awful, as you can imagine. I didn't worry too much about how it looked, because it felt even worse. My plastic shell skin still had all the sensitivity that one's face usually has. The freezing, buckling and rippling process was incredibly painful. On the other hand, the swelling process didn't hurt at all. But it itched. It itched like my face was an anthill bustling with teeny-tiny, poisonous, bright red busy insects. It itched like the places under my face were sweating through a fuzzy scarf knitted from 100% wool, if I were allergic to wool. It itched like poison ivy and chigger bites. It itched like I was going mad.

While my face shrank in pain, I dreamed about cool fountains and rose petals. I set my jaw and waited for it to end. It was bad, but bearable.

While it swelled and itched, I dreamed about clawing my face off with sharpened fingernails, scrubbing it with sandpaper, shaving it with a carrot peeler. I sucked on ice. I sat on my hands. I prayed to stop being tortured.

My experience during this time is the reason why, if I am every playing one of those "what if" games, and the question is, "What if you had to chose between excruciating pain or intense itching?" I will always answer, "Pain, please!"

Hell might be hot. But worse than that, I'm sure it itches.

At first I blamed allergies. I followed the food plan my doctor suggested would help me identify the offender. I ate nothing for 3 days. When I was hungry, I drank water. On the fourth day, I had brown rice and spinach. The next day I added apple. The next, some plain chicken. Each day I added one new thing to my diet, and waited for a response from my body. Chocolate gave me a tiny pimple on my nose, but other than that, nothing seemed to affect me for good or bad.

I changed out all the chemicals in the house. Cleaning sprays, soaps, lotions, and perfumes all went in the garbage. Every soft surface got washed. Every hard surface got wiped down. Nothing helped.

A naturopath gave me ozone enhanced olive oil to massage into my skin. It smelled good but didn't help. I took a remedy made from honeybee stings. That was pretty exciting. It was the one thing I did that seemed to make any difference. It made my face swell up faster and fatter.

Desperate and defeated, I dropped out of school, quit my job, and flew to Florida. At my dad's house on the Withlacoochie river, I could hide out and rest. My stepmom drove me around to doctor's offices, looking for a cure.

Maybe I should look it up online, to see if the dermatology practice she took me to still exists. It would be nice to have some back up for my memory. You'll probably think I'm making this up, but I'm going to tell you anyway. I clearly remember sitting in the minivan with her, looking at the sign in their parking lot. There were four doctors that shared this practice. One of them had a normal name, Dr. Evans or something. The other three, I swear I am not making this up, were Dr. Boyles, Dr. Burns and Dr. Pimpleton. These dermatologists were all named after skin problems!

Despite the poetry of their practice, they could not help me. The one I saw asked me what I was using to wash my lumpy, crusty face. "I'm afraid to touch it with anything." I told him. "I just splash cool water on it." He rolled his eyes and gave me a sample bottle of liquid soap for sensitive skin. "Use this," he told me. I did. It gave me a rash.

In the end, the cure seemed to be rest. I stayed in Florida for a month, and did almost nothing. I sat on the third floor deck and looked out at the cypress swamp. I drank white wine and listened to Simon and Garfunkle. When I woke up in the morning too lazy to stand in the shower, I slid my body into the hot tub instead.

I didn't worry about school, or work, or money, or meals. I wore the same clothes every day. I let my hair get shaggy. I ate whatever my stepmom prepared. I read whatever books were in the house. I slept and slept and slept.

After a month, my skin was back to normal. Peachy, smooth and completely free of pain or itching, I looked and felt ready to get back to my life. I got a haircut, bought pretty new clothes, and delighted in being somewhat attractive when I wanted to be.

Healthy again, I was able to think about what it had been like to look like a monster. While I was still dealing with it, it didn't matter too me. I was immersed in the pain, tormented by the itching and consumed with the agony of not understanding what was happening to me. My physical appearence became ironically immaterial.

Back when I looked like my head was exploding, I had had a counseling session. I'd started to cry about my face and my well-meaning counselor had tried to sympathize with me. "I'm sure it is terrribly frightening and frustrating to look like this and not understand why," she said with her hand on my shoulder. I remember looking up in surprise. "I don't care what I LOOK like!" I whined, "I just want it to stop hurting!!!"

Why would I care about my appearance? I hardly even knew what I looked like any more. I had draped scarves and towels over all the mirrors in my house. I only left the house for doctors' appointments.

Except the day I had to go to campus and drop out of the honors program. It was a particularly bad day. I probably looked like a fresh loaf of sourdough bread, baked with a tomato paste topping. I couldn't even wear sunglasses. They wouldn't fit.

It was a big deal to get into this honors program. It was a big hassle to drop out of it. I had to meet some administrator in person and fill out paperwork. I had to have a good reason to quit, and documentation of the reason. I'd never met her before, and she didn't know what I looked like. I thought about warning her over the phone ahead of time, but I couldn't think of what to say.

"Just so you know, I have a skin condition that makes my face bubble and sweat like a fresh pizza."

It didn't seem like an auspicious way to lead in to this important meeting, which could wreck my GPA and even threaten my chances of graduating if it went awry.

Also, I didn't want to be melodramatic. Maybe I didn't look that bad anymore. After several weeks of isolation, I was loosing perpective.

When I got to her office, the door was closed. I knocked. "Come in!" Her bright voice invited me to open the door, so I did.

She was sitting at the desk, looking down at some papers. I took a step forward. She looked up at me. She screamed.

I'm not kidding. This grown-up, professional woman in the safety of her own office chair let out a holler like she was auditioning for a monster movie. I, of course, was the monster.

It didn't last long. Half a breath into it, she got a grip, gulped her jaw shut and tried to smile. I tried to smile back.

"I'm sorry." I felt bad about scaring her. "This is the reason I have to give up the program. I'm having problems with my face."

I didn't tell her about the various failed treatments and attempts to locate the cause of my problem. I didn't tell her about laying awake at night crying because I couldn't scratch my cheeks off. I didn't tell her about the nights I couldn't even cry because moving my face at all hurt so horribly and the salt water burned so bad. She didn't need to know any of that.

All she needed to do was look at me, and suddenly the paperwork that had seemed so daunting floated past me in a well-ordered stream. She signed everything that needed to be signed and approved everything that needed to be approved. She didn't need a doctor's note or a diagnosis. Just one look at me was enough to convince her that I really ought to drop out of honors, and probably out of school alltogether. I got excused just for being really super ugly.

It's this memory that comes up most often when I am trying to think of a situation where I would volunteer myself for corrective cosmetic surgery. If I made people scream when they saw me...I would let a surgeon fix me with her knife.