Not many people would describe me as cautious, hesitant, or indecisive; even fewer would describe me as fearful. But on this Sunday morning, this is my current state.
I saw a photo of my profile. It was taken 7 years ago by a student in my new-hire class. Ever since then, I have been focused on the effects of gravity on my neck. It was most apparent sitting in the chair at the hair salon. When you wear a crewneck black cape, there is nothing to camouflage sagging skin. I am not alone in this frustration; Erma Bombeck wrote an entire book titled “I Feel Bad About My Neck.” Over the years, I scheduled and rescheduled necklift consultations. I saved cash to pay for it. My stash was pulled into frivolous expenses like septic tank repair. On my 69th birthday, realizing it was now or never, I booked the procedure.
I didn’t feel one iota of pain; it could have been the Valium and oxycodone taken an hour before, and I was awake for the entire procedure. I walked out of the office wrapped like a mummy, eagerly anticipating the results. The next morning, when the surgeon removed the wrapping, I was shocked to see that the wrinkled bags of skin that had once covered my neck were gone. The mirror showed a small incision, no bruising, and the neckline of my younger self. I followed the instructions to the letter. Slept on the recliner, took all antibiotics as directed, wore the sling 24 X 7, and kept the appointments.
Ten days later, I was cleared to return to normal living, and the sling was banished to the drawer, only to emerge when sleeping. I relinquished my passenger seat, released Rich as the chauffeur, and reclaimed the driver’s side. I ventured to Livotti’s Italian market, spending $191.13 to replenish the barren shelves. I created a coloring book for my grandkids for Valentine’s Day using an app that turned pictures into coloring pages. I traveled to Staples for ink, paper, and colored pencils to complete the gift. I watched my grandchildren joyfully flip through the pages in search of their pictures. My heart swelled as they retold the memories that each one recalled. Kierstyn was away, so I would wait until tomorrow to bring their gifts.
Late Thursday afternoon, I tossed the last two coloring books onto the passenger seat and slipped into the driver’s side to make the final delivery. Suddenly, rapid needle pricks seared across the left side of my neck. I grabbed the area applying pressure to hold it together, only to feel swelling expand across my neck. I felt my airways constrict. I had no idea what was happening. I imagined suffocating in the front seat of my car, surrounded by Valentine’s gift bags filled with Skittles. I dialed the doctor anxiously, shouting: “Something is wrong, something is very wrong,” and was told to come over. He would later tell me that it was my tone that kept him in the office. I am a calm patient, and this was out of the ordinary.
Frantically, I called Rich. Later, I learned he was in aisle 7 of ShopRite. I told him to come home NOW. I texted Kierstyn, telling her I was not coming and couldn’t talk. She responded with a screenshot from ChatGPT telling me I most likely had a hematoma. The swelling had now reached the right side of my neck, which was hard and turning deep purple. My breathing was becoming more difficult. I moved to the passenger side, closed my eyes, slowed each breath, and waited for Rich. Forty minutes later, we were at the doctor’s office, where he reopened the sutures and evacuated the hematoma.
The doctor told me I had broken his seven-year record for patient hematomas and confirmed that the timing was unusual. Apparently, they are more common 2-3 days after surgery, and I was 12 days out. While the intention was to reassure me, it had the opposite effect. I am writing from the couch, fully bandaged and acutely aware of turning my head. My neck is. now bruised and swollen, erasing the image I saw the day after surgery. The suture line is now crooked due to swelling, and there is an ugly bruise at the base of my neck. With each prickling sensation, a normal part of the healing process, my brain fears, ” Is it happening again? Time will be my assurance for returning to normal living. In the meantime, I am navigating the world of Netflix and relearning that patience is a virtue.
foursetsofeyes 