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Why I got two nose jobs

All Adither posted 19 weeks 1 day ago —

I’ve never made a secret of the fact that I’ve had two nose
jobs. I’ve never felt apologetic about them either. Yes, I capitulated to
societal ideas of what is pretty and what is not pretty. And I determined that
my schnoz was not especially attractive.

Did I feel a little guilty undergoing two surgeries to
shrink my nose while there were children in far off countries (heck, in THIS country) needing
procedures to fix facial deformities? Yeah, a little. I didn’t think about
those things as much then, though. And if I had, I most likely still would’ve
gone ahead with it.

My nose felt like a deformity to me. It was big and crooked
and I was so self-conscious of it I cringed whenever someone gazed (or even
glanced) at my profile. Nose dysmorphic much? I know.

So, for anyone who’s ever felt similarly and considered such
a procedure, here’s a little about what I experienced.

I had my first nose job, known medically as
septo-rhinoplasty, when I was twenty-seven. I had wanted the surgery since the
onset of puberty, when my nose pinnochioed and turned my small-featured face
into some sort of Picasso-esque misrepresentation of myself.

When I was a teenager I used to weep over the length and
ugliness of my nose (as well as fifty trillion other very serious and worthy issues). I used to swipe a
hammer from my dad’s workbench and sit on the cold basement steps tapping my
oversized proboscis, wishing I had the nerve to break it so badly that a nose
job would be a necessity and thus, covered by my parents’ insurance.

It wasn’t until I was a young adult, with insurance and
resources of my own, though, that I actually sought out a plastic surgeon. I
visited only one. I liked him right away. We'll just call him Dr. McSwoony in reference to his Ken-doll looks. In retrospect, I settled on him
prematurely.

He tried to convince me that I had breathing problems. Which
I didn’t. And he pushed hard for me to let him insert implants into two slightly concave
spaces along my nostrils. Which I rejected. I only wanted a shorter nose. I
honestly didn’t care about morphing into some great beauty and the word
implants scared me like scalpel apparently didn't.

To McSwoony's credit, he did, upon opening me up in the OR, find a
gigantic bone spur and a severely deviated septum. So, yeah, there was
something medically going on there. Perhaps it never would have bothered me.
Perhaps it would have. Who can say? The existence of the spur and the deviation did help me justify the whole ordeal, so we'll just call them serious complications and move on.

The recovery for that first procedure was pretty brutal. My
mom came and stayed with me in my hot, one-bedroom apartment, helping me avoid
certain upchuck by continually feeding me ice chips. Thankfully, I escaped the
ugliness that would’ve been barfing with gauze packed all the way up into my
sinuses.

Besides the gauze, through which I, of course, couldn’t suck
one single breath, I had a splint across the top of my nose. My eyes were black
and blue and stitches ran from nostril to nostril.

After five days, my surgeon removed the packing, which, so
help me Dog, felt like someone pulling worms from my brain. (You’re welcome.)

The remainder of my recovery was better, though I was wiped
out and spent a lot of time sprawled across my futon, willing my air
conditioner to work and my rabbit-ear TV antenna to spontaneously discover a
satellite from which it could get a decent signal.

Still, I was thrilled with the results. I didn’t have the
“perfect” nose--It continued to lean too far to the right
and boasted a small bump near the tip, but I no longer felt like it was so
conspicuous, so freaking gigantic.

A few years after that first surgery, I started having
breathing issues. At night, so I could sleep, I had to wear the plastic nose
strips that athletes favor. I was becoming a mouth breather which was, dear
Lord, completely unacceptable. After marrying J., I sought out a surgeon in
Seattle, where I now live.

This surgeon (we'll just call him McYummy in reference to how good he is with his hands) was thorough and cautious. He ordered a CAT
scan of my sinuses and had me try a nasal allergy spray for a few months to be
sure my symptoms weren’t some manifestation of hay fever. They weren’t.

McSwoony had removed too much cartilage and my nose
was collapsing inward from the sides.

We scheduled my second surgery, which would involve removing
cartilage from my left ear and grafting it into my nose. I remember J. driving
me to the hospital the morning I was to be sliced and diced again. I was woozy
with fear, wondering why I was risking an elective operation when I could just
buy massive boxes of Breathe Right strips at Costco. For a hypochondriac like
me, particularly, was all this really necessary?

Immediately upon entering the surgerical prep area, I asked
for a shot. A shot? Anyone? A shot of anything to calm me down? They assured me
it would come soon and threw an XXXL gown in my general direction. (I’m TALL people, not outrageously heavy)

Finally the nice lady with the catheter and coveted shot
came over and fixed a suitable portal into my vein. I was perched forward,
anxiously, on a chair. She injected the sedative into my bloodstream and,
before I even had time to sit back, the nectar of the stoned Gods started
working its magic.

The surgery took a couple hours, during which J. jogged down
to his office a few blocks away to work a little (which only bothered me
slightly). He was there when I awoke and, honestly, from that very first moment
of consciousness, I was breathing more easily. I didn’t, however, get to feast
my eyes on the results for about a week.

When the bandages were removed, I was mortified. McYummy had taken quite a bit off the tip of my nose and I suddenly felt like I looked
pugish, like the space between my upper lip and nose was a massive stretch of
exposed skin. I kept checking the mirror. I called my mom and wailed that I
hated my new reflection.

I had no choice but to learn to like this version of Me. As
I desensitized myself to the pugishness of my profile (Quick peek in the
mirror. Look away. Quick peek in the mirror. Look away.), I realized that my
second new nose was nice. I started getting comfortable in my fresh schnozzy
digs and my nose, after a while, felt like the one I was always meant to have.

It’s been six years since that second surgery and some of my
old breathing problems, caused by surgery number one, have returned. On a
milder scale. I’ve accepted that I’ll never respire in big, glorious breaths again.

But I feel like I’ve found a happy medium. My nose and I are
good now. I like it and it basically likes me. I only have to wear the strips
sometimes, during high allergy season. And I am not going after more and more
procedures. I just wanted the one. The nose job.

I think. Ask me how I feel about facelifts
when I’m 65 and I might sing a different tune.

Heya, if I could lie on a futon (even in a hot apartment
with no TV) for five straight days, I would certainly look into it. Momma
doesn’t get vacation like that anymore.