A Memoir

Not Afraid.

"Yeah, you're gonna need another surgery," Dr. Galagher had said.

It was March of 2018 when she told me this. I sat in her office for a routine checkup. What surprised me more than hearing that I would need another surgery was that I actually wasn't surprised at all. In fact, it all seemed quite normal to hear those words. After twelve surgeries, I was almost used to them by now, so this one should be a piece of cake. But that's what was strange; nobody should be used to hearing such news.

Even as we left the office and climbed into the car, I didn't cry to my mom. The car ride was mostly silent except for the rumble of the engine and vibration of music. I knew that I needed this surgery—it would fix my septum, permanently, we hoped. I'd be able to breathe better. In light of that, I tried my best to smile to my family and pretend like it didn't matter. Really, it didn't matter because compared to the other surgeries I'd had this one would be easy.

But after I got home, I went straight to my room and looked in the mirror. All I could think about was how horrible my last surgery was—they had to break my nose. When I had looked at myself in the mirror after waking up from the anesthetic, my first thought was I looked like a raccoon. The bruises stretched around the whole upper half of my face. My skin felt oily and raw—my nose was so clogged up from the dry blood, the stitches, the stint, that I could barely talk. My eyes were so swollen that they were almost closed shut. I couldn't even text my friends and I could barely watch TV because I couldn't see—and what I did see was blurry since I couldn't wear my glasses.

So no, this surgery could not be as bad. It definitely wouldn't be as bad as my back surgery either. I couldn't walk at all for a few days after that. Even standing had been hard. And when I was able to walk, I needed my mother's help. It was like learning to walk all over again. In fact, I needed my mother's help for everything. From something as complex as walking three steps or as a simple as putting on socks. At least I wouldn't need weeks of physical therapy for my nose—that's a plus, right?

To be honest, this was probably going to be the most minor surgery I had ever had. Maybe that's why I wasn't scared or surprised after the doctor told me.

It was 5:00 in the morning on the day of the surgery and the sky was still dark. The fact that I was having surgery still hadn't sunk in. I spent most of the time looking out the car window as my mom played Lauren Daigle in the background.

"It doesn't seem real," I said. "It seems normal."

"Well, you have been through this many times before."

That much was true. Even as I rode the elevator with my parents to the waiting room, it all continued to seem normal. It shouldn't have been normal. The fact that it was normal wasn't fair.

I was used to everything that happened a couple hours before the surgery. I would meet the nurses, get dressed into a hospital gown, have an IV put in, talk to the anesthesiologist, and see Dr. Galagher. It was a routine that I was comfortable in.

"We're hoping to get this over with as soon as possible cause I have someplace to be afterward." I think the doctor meant to say that with the hopes that it would comfort me, and it would be over really soon. It didn't. It made me feel more uneasy that she would then just be rushing to get it over with and could easily make a mistake. After all, this is my face we're talking about. Unfortunately, I'm stuck with it for life.

When the anesthesiologist came over, he seemed very carefree and charismatic. My mom spoke with him for a few minutes:

"I normally come with her into the surgical room until she falls asleep."