This book is a "must read" for anyone even CONSIDERING facial cosmetic surgery. It is the true story of the Author's journey through the process of a neck and lower face lift. Written in real time, it addresses everything from choosing a plastic surgeon, to the final stages of recovery, and of course, everything in between. It is laugh out loud funny, extremely insightful, and brutally honest. This book is an essential guide for those seeking wisdom when making the decision to "go under the knife!"
The Face Lift
(a true story)By Karen CooperAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2010 Karen Cooper
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4520-3367-9Chapter One
Finding the Right Surgeon
If you live in any large city in the United States, such as Los Angeles, New York, Miami, or even Palm Springs for that matter, you will have a veritable cornucopia of board-certified plastic surgeons to choose from. They will have ads on billboards and television, in yellow pages and theatre programs, and I have personally seen them on the backs of bathroom doors in nightclubs! TV shows like Skin Deep, The Swan, Dr. 90210, and so on profile plastic surgery procedures. You see, in America having plastic surgery is like going for a root canal-not too much fun, but necessary, and very common.
In Calgary, Alberta, your choice of board-certified plastic surgeons is extremely limited, with no visible advertising. So where is a girl to get a recommendation? Well, the best place to start is with the person who has been helping you maintain your "completely natural" look all these years. Yes, your dermatologist.
If you have been going to this doctor every four or five months for the past several years for your little touch-ups, I assume that by now you have developed a fairly good relationship.
Most reputable dermatologists work with networks of other physicians who have practices in specialty areas, such as cosmetic dentistry, aesthetics, vein and laser treatment, and of course, plastic surgery.
Now here comes the hard part. It is embarrassing. How do I approach my darling Dr. A, after all his years of keeping me away from the knife, to ask him who would be the best person to slice open my face? My personal solution for this awkward moment was to have a couple of glasses of wine prior to my appointment.
After Dr. A has carefully administered an ever-so-slight dose of Botox (you see, I really don't need much), I take a deep breath and calmly say, "Dr. A, if you knew someone who was thinking about having plastic surgery-not me, of course, my good friend T-who would you recommend?" Brilliant, right?
"What are you having done?" he asks dryly without so much as a blink. Busted.
Okay, cat's out of the bag, and without a moment's hesitation he says, "There is only one doctor in the city that I would recommend, and that is Dr. L."
Great. My plan can move forward!
Chapter Two
Dr. L
So, I made the appointment, and the eight-month waiting period to see Dr. L. has flown by. As I sit in his small, somewhat unspectacular waiting room, I find myself (inconspicuously, I hope) checking out the other patients and making small personal wagers as to what procedures they might have had. I don't see any particularly large breasts, small noses, or tight cheeks. Hmmmmm. What could they have had done? Brazilian butt lifts? Surely they would be sitting on doughnut pillows, no?
My reverie is broken by the sound of the receptionist calling my name. My heart skips a beat, and I follow her down the long corridor to the examination room.
"The doctor will be right with you," she says, and as she turns around to close the door, I notice that for her eighty five-pound frame, she is sporting a spectacular rack! This doctor must be good!
As it turns out, "be right with you" is a standard phrase all receptionists use, and I put the next half hour to good use by carefully going over the top ten questions I had downloaded from a plastic surgery site called "The Top Ten Questions to Ask Your Plastic Surgeon." Smart, huh? I was also imagining what this god of all things beautiful would look like. After all, he had the kingdom of plastic surgery at his fingertips, so surely he would take advantage of all the gravity-defying procedures to advertise his craft more effectively!
A soft knock on the door. This is it. The door opens, and standing in front of me is what can only be described as a tiny, well-dressed lawn gnome! Diminutive isn't quite the word for it. He is about five feet three inches, with tufts of thin gray hair sprouting from his pink scalp, and a nose that speaks of many nights spent in a Scottish pub downing pints of Guinness followed by whiskey shots. He is clearly not a candidate for the cover of a Harlequin romance novel-not even close. But he has twinkling blue eyes, and I want to put him in my pocket!
In a very quiet voice, my mini doc says, "Good morning, and what have you come to discuss today?" I detect a slight Scottish accent! Am I right about the Guinness and whiskey as well?
"I would like to see about getting a neck lift, and wanted to ask you some questions if that is okay."
For the next forty-five minutes we go over my questions, his questions, the procedure, the cost, and my expectations, and finally we set the date.
I walk out of his office armed and dangerous, with all the information I need in the form of a beautiful twelve-page glossy pamphlet. Mona Lisa smiles confidently from the cover, looking youthful and radiant. Yes, I am prepared. My surgery date is booked, and I am ready to say, "Bye-bye, Turkey Neck!"
Chapter Three
Under the Knife
It is 6:00 AM the morning of my surgery. All things considered, I had a remarkably good sleep, and I awake feeling optimistic and confident, with just a healthy amount of butterflies doing circles in my tummy. After all, since my initial consultation with Dr. L, I have had another four months to think this through. I have read every article to do with this procedure on the World Wide Web. I have scoured through hundreds of before-and-after photos. I have read the blogs of thousands of women who have not only been through it but have loved the results. Shiny, happy, tight, and wrinkle-free faces have beamed off the pages of my computer for four months. I am ready.
I have been told to dress comfortably and not to wear anything that needs to be pulled over my head. I tell myself that that doesn't mean I can't be stylish, so I pick out a pair of Christian Audigier track pants with a matching hoodie. Nice!
My darling husband has offered to drive me, and it is still dark as we set out to the surgical site on the other side of town. I need to be there at 7:30, and although our Google map assures us that it is only a fifteen-minute drive, I insist that we leave thirty minutes early just in case. Punctuality is a foundation of good living!
Fifteen minutes later we arrive at our destination. (Okay, okay, he was right.) A thin walkway leads us to the entrance of the facility, and we enter only to find that none of the staff has arrived yet. No problem. I see a sofa and a magazine rack filled to the brim with copies of such classics as Reader's Digest, Home and Garden, and my personal favorite, Calgary's Child, a very informative parenting guide. Even though my son is twenty-five, it never hurts to pick up some great childrearing tips.
Finally a nurse dressed in scrubs walks into the waiting area and calls my name. I stand up, and she advises me that there are some questions that need to be answered before the surgery.
I pass the test with flying colors, having followed all my pre-op guidelines to the letter. No, I have not consumed any alcohol for the past week. No I have not taken any aspirin or Advil. No, I have not had any food or drink since midnight.
"Perfect," she says, and for some reason I feel like giving myself a little pat on the...
