SEX: J-OFF

Small and nonchalant, my nose fit my face perfectly. So of course, I broke it. And it wasn’t an “Ooo, yikes! Something feels funny!” kind of break, it was a bloody horrific smash. A junior in high school, I spent a lazy Saturday at the local water park a few days into the summer. As I careened down a slide, my face hit the back of my friend’s head and suddenly the wading pool was filled with so much blood that 8 year olds screamed “Shark!”

“Well,” the hunky paramedic said, “it’s a good thing it’s summer break, you’ll have plenty of time to get your nose done. Recovery only takes three weeks or so.”

“Three weeks?! But I’m leaving for France in nine days!” I was all set to spend the summer in Cannes as an exchange student, and now I had to choose between fixing my face and flirting with Pascals and Pierres.

Foolishly, I chose the trip. The doctors basically pushed my nose back over and hoped it would stay, which it didn’t, as vengeance for coming in second place I suppose.

From that day forward, my nose was off centered and bumpy. It wasn’t anything most people noticed or commented on, but I noticed. A lot. What’s worse, I couldn’t really breathe. I had to wear BreatheRight strips every single night, which was super sexy.

Last spring, five years after the initial accident, I’d had enough of avoiding profile pictures and sleepovers with hot boys. I was getting my nose done.

My friends thought I was crazy and vain, but rather than endlessly explaining my motives, I just joked that after living 18 years in the OC, I either needed to nip and tuck or get the hell out.

It took me almost a full year to find a surgeon who could fix my bump and my breathing, with whom I also felt comfortable. I took my mom with me to every single appointment and asked a million questions:

“Will the surgery disrupt my freckles at all?”

“Can I eat chicken McNuggets afterwards? Like, a lot of them?”

“Have you ever lost a patient?”

The answers (no, yes, and no, respectively) eased my worries and gave me insight to their bedside manner. If you do decide to see a doctor, then never be afraid to ask questions, even if you think they’re stupid or make you sound afraid. It’s okay to be frightened and trust me, they’ve probably heard worse. More than anything, go with your gut feeling. One doctor seemed like a good idea but he had a messy office, as my mother pointed out.

“So?” I asked.

“Well if he’s sloppy at work, maybe he’ll be sloppy with your face.”

Good point.

Another rule: don’t go to any plastic surgeon that offers specials or coupons. This is your body, not a car wash. A few extra hundred dollars might save you tears, worry, and even further surgeries.

More importantly, make sure you’re doing everything for the right reasons. I never wanted to look like Jessica Simpson, I just wanted my old nose back. If you find yourself thinking, “If my boobs/nose/thighs were different, then my boyfriend/parents/self-esteem would be too!” you’re wrong. Very wrong. You’ll never fix emotional problems with surgery. All you’ll get is a maxed out credit card and a kinship with Michael Jackson. Yeesh.

And speaking of maxing out credit cards, this surgery did not come cheaply. Insurance only paid one third (only because they were fixing my breathing too) of the nearly $10,000 total, which left me, a new college grad, to pick up the tab. Most rhinoplasties are only $5,000 or so, but because I was having both cosmetic and breathing issues corrected, that upped the price considerably. Be sure you get an accurate quote, in writing that includes operating room expenses, doctors fee, anesthesia costs, and any after-surgery consultations. Find out if your doc will require a hefty round of medications and ask for the generics if they’re available. Your doctor won’t think you’re being cheap or tacky; they’ll respect your for getting all the facts. In the weeks that preceded the surgery, I stopped watching Extreme Makeover, The Swan, and Dr. 90210. I didn’t need all the gory details dancing around in my head. Instead, I focused on how good it was going to feel to run my finger down a smooth, straight schnoz!

The alarm went off at 5:15 am, my mom bustling around readying a post-op nest of pillows, movies, and painkillers. The early hour was enough to make me want to cancel the whole thing and blow the money at Nordstrom’s, but we piled in the car and headed down to the surgery center. All the nurses were very kind and patient, even letting me keep my sock monkey with me in the operating room. Yes, that’s right, I am 24 years old and still clutch my monkey when I’m scared, so what?! One of the most important things about surgery is your attitude going into it. It’s been proven that patients who enter an operation frightened and hysterical have a longer recovery time and more pain involved. As the nurse put the anesthesia into my IV, she told me to sing a happy song:

“Cristal poppin’ in the stretch Navigator, we got food every where as if the party was catered…” Somewhere between “toot toot” and “beep beep”, I drifted into a dreamless sleep.

Hours later, I woke up to the gentle pat of my mom squeezing my hand.

“Wake up Shallie! It’s all over!”

Groggy from the drugs and just wanting to go back to sleep, I remember having the thought, “But I have to wake up; I’ve got this microwave sitting on my face!”

The pressure was intense. The pain was not unbearable, kind of like smacking your nose against something and cursing for a few minutes. I wanted to just escape the pressure, and just as it started to really irritate me, a new feeling took over: nausea! During a rhinoplasty you swallow a lot of blood, none of which is digested by your body. So…

“I’m going to throw up!”

After my stomach calmed down, I lay there thinking about how miserable I was. So uncomfortable, so helpless, in pain, unable to move; all I could do was roll my eyes around and feebly wiggle my fingers.

I’m never doing this again, I promised myself, I don’t care if I get shot, I’m walking it off. I’m going to stay healthy, take my vitamins, exercise. No more surgery. EVER.

I’m such a wuss. God forbid I ever have to give birth.