The Scar

The doctor’s office was perfectly immaculate. Its cold sterility comforted me. The expanses of dust-free, uncluttered shelves soothed me and lulled me into a sense of false security. Here’s the thing about false security; it always crumbles. That moment came when the doctor strode in.

I tend to believe that dentists should have perfect teeth, hairdressers, perfectly maintained coiffures and plastic surgeons, should be at least decently beautiful. Dr John Feltman, MD, FRCSC, not so renowned plastic surgeon was not what I would describe as beautiful. His nose was a little too big, his smile pulled a little to the left. The overall composition was painfully average. The effect not only burst my confidence, but sent jangles of irritation through my body.

“Why, hello Mrs. Horst. So glad to finally meet you,” he said, holding out a slightly pudgy, hairy hand.

My displeasure would not allow me to return his gesture in kind. I ignored his imploring hand and gave a curt nod. I hoped he could feel my judgement hitting him like waves, however my slight didn’t appear to faze him. He dropped his hand and instead peered intently at my face. The reason I was there. Years ago, I would have reacted with shame. I would have dipped my head, but these days I could only respond with anger.

“So, you see the problem.” I spat the words out like venom. I knew I was being irrational, but I was beyond caring.

Dr Feltman was impervious to bad manners. He simply glanced down at the medical chart in his hands before responding.

“Quite a scar. A hypertrophic, which causes extra problems. It starts under the hairline? And ends mid nose. The chart says a chainsaw accident…. You are lucky it didn’t hit your eye.”

As the doctor droned on, my mind wandered to a different doctor’s office a couple of years ago. I hadn’t been alone that time. That was before the fighting, before the anger. It was when we were all realizing I just wasn’t the same person anymore. Before Jim walked out proclaiming if that I refused to help myself, he couldn’t help. On that day, Jim, my then husband, had sat awkwardly perched forward in his chair, looking pained. His anguish had annoyed me. Did he think he was the victim here?

I can still remember the pleading in Jim’s voice as he spoke. “She is just not the same. She is angry all the time. She is mean to me. She can’t see anything beyond the accident. One minute she is sad and the next she is yelling and throwing things. You have to help us.”

Dr Eric had not been the original doctor in the ER the day of the accident, but she had followed my recovery since the initial surgery. She had pursed her perfectly shaped painted lips before answering Jim.

“The surgery went well, and the area is healing beautifully, but there is and will be a disfiguring scar. That can be very hard on a person and sometimes counseling is needed to cope. In Erica’s case though, it is more than that.”

She had paused then to shift her focus over to me.

“Now in your case, we have known damage to the prefrontal cortex, essentially the front-most portion of the brain. We have talked about this before, but I need you both to understand what that means. The prefrontal cortex has a complex job. It handles a lot of our… emotional thinking. People with damage in that area often retain logical thinking but lack empathy and social skills.”

That doctor’s speech had made perfect sense to me, but it hadn’t changed me or mattered one bit. I had refused to see the counselor she referred me to. I had gone home and climbed back into bed, only emerging to spout vitriol at whomever came to cheer me.

It wasn’t just my social skills or my personality that lacked, though. Chunks of my life seemed to be missing, too. Some memories were gone and others so faded they didn’t feel like my own. I can almost remember loving Jim. I can almost remember having patience and loving his foibles. I can almost taste the joy once felt in a freshly brewed coffee. Almost, just like I can almost remember a face that was not marred by a thickening, angry scar.

My focus suddenly jumped back to present day. The flawed Dr. Feltman was still droning on. Something about lasers and resurfacing. I needed to pay attention. I settled more firmly in my chair, chastising myself for drifting while my eyes chastised him for allowing it to happen.

“So, what is it you wish to gain by having this procedure done, Mrs. Horst?” His eyebrows rose expectantly, waiting for my answer.

“I hope that my dammed face won’t be quite so ugly.”

I’m sure as plain and as imperfect as the doctor looked, he was intelligent enough to hear the missing parts of that answer. I did want my face to look more normal. A part of me did want to feel pretty, but more than that I hoped that by fixing the outside it would somehow fix the inside. I wanted to be loved, and I yearned for those disintegrating memories, to feel their power again.

Dr. Feltman tapped his finger against his chin. He appeared to be thinking intently, though he must have given the following response a million times.

“It may take a few treatments, but I think we can get a good handle on this. You need to know that it will never fully disappear. What we can do is bring it flush to the skin and get it to fade. At that point minimal make-up should make it unremarkable.”

Over the next half hour, we discussed and hammered out all the details. He showed me glossy pictures of before and afters designed to give even the most deformed of us hope. At the end he ushered me back out to the front desk, unceremoniously leaving me waiting behind an emaciated woman with a bizarrely large bosom. He offered no goodbye nor handshake on his departure, simply spoke to the receptionist and strode purposefully away.

Despite myself, I felt rather hopeful about the entire enterprise. I decided to celebrate by taking a candy from the jar on the counter ahead. It was an old-fashioned candy dish, big and round. The kind you would find in almost every old grandmother’s house across the country. The individually wrapped confectioneries came in a myriad of colors and shapes. Near the bottom I could see one perfectly red, perfectly round candy. With satisfaction, I decided it was the one for me.

The woman in front of me paraded herself out of the way with an obnoxious clicking of heels. I kept my face smooth while internally I mocked her for her ungainly proportions. Ignoring the receptionist, I dug to the bottom of the candy jar to retrieve my prize. I barely listened to her salutations as I unwrapped and popped the treat into my mouth. I was just about to speak when it hit me that something was wrong. My face suddenly contorted; my lips puckered as this seemingly innocent candy assaulted me with a sourness that rendered me momentarily speechless. I quickly spat the offensive object into my hand and plonked it onto the counter with a clink.

I let my voice ring with indignation.

“What in the hell is this? You should have a… a warning on something so vile, so sour. You people just allow someone to think these are CANDIES and then give them this…”

Just like that; like the feeling of a stream of cold water. I knew it was pointless, not just the castigation, but this entire ordeal. I turned on my heel and began walking out of the office.

“Don’t you want to set up an appointment for first treatment..?” I heard the receptionist call after me, but I didn’t stop. In fact, I never looked back again.