YOU NEED IT or what a cosmetic surgeon should not say

Adventures is Cosmetic Surgery, part two

I knew I only wanted my neck done. Possibly something to get rid of that red postmenopausal neck and decolletage (love that word).But that was all! I was firm! Uh-huh.

I chose three surgeons, because  three is the magic number for getting quotes.  I would like to say I had a systematic, well thought out list of  criteria for how I chose these three, but I’m not that analytical. I rely on my initial feelings and am generally happy when I trust myself. Without fail, whenever I have disregarded my Gut Reactor it has been a mistake and I was furious with myself for ignoring the internal  warning signs. Having said that, a well done web page with fantastic before and after photos can sway me as well. Excellent web design = superior surgical skills?

Surgeon A is 45 minutes away in a very swanky town. Surgeon B is in my town, and had done work on a friend. Surgeon C is also local and was head of surgery at a nearby hospital ( oh and he trained in France).

I live in South Florida, where the ratio of cosmetic surgeons to population is two to one.(Ok, NOT a real statistic). My first consultation was with a Doctor A. While I admit to living in an affluent town, the city Doctor A is  located in is strictly Top Drawer, one percenters. This is actually why I chose him: wealthy women with lots of disposable income and blood sucking attorneys on retainage would not tolerate a bad procedure. Oh and he had a very classy web design.

Paul agreed to go with me. I needed the support.

I prepared carefully for this appointment. I bought a new outfit, got a manicure, pulled out the designer purse. I was meticulous with my makeup application. As my husband would say:”Show dominance.” For me it was about blending with the natives.

Two things were immediately apparent: The room was packed and no men. The office is  faux stone Greek columns with over stuffed furniture arranged in intimate living room settings. All soft colors and more importantly, flattering lighting.

As I filled out the  forms, women came and went. The staff knew everyone’s name. It seemed that I had  walked into a private club /spa. I wanted to be in the club. The very attractive woman next Paul was on the phone. “I told you I had a touch-up today.” Touch-up? I needed to speak the lingo.

While most of the women were attractive and smooth and thin, I saw some scary sights. The one that stood out: an older (70+?) woman in a catsuit – not my first choice for her – with an obvious love for tanning. Her face didn’t look like anything could be done. Was she a regular patient? Here to have previous surgical mistakes repaired?  At this point, adding skin seemed to be her only option.

“Kim?” Hearing my name, I turn and see what I can only describe as a walking Barbie Doll. She is beautiful and flawless and perfect…..impossibly perfect. I feel shabby.

She gives us a brilliant smile with straight white teeth and ushers us into her office. Kristina is the patient co-ordinator, surgical scheduling person. Of course you would want her to showcase all of your work. She was kind and helpful, but I remember nothing. I was mesmerized by Kristina’s physical perfection.  Even her hands were smooth, without not so much as a hangnail on her gel manicured fingers. I heard terms like facial fillers, laser resurfacing, brow lift. My heart was beating faster than normal and I felt clammy.

Kristina escorts Paul and I into an examining room, where I sit in what looks like a dentist chair, while we wait for Doctor A. My insides are in a frenzy. I am not excited, I am closer to terrified. Why? This consultation is spinning out of my control. Procedures were being discussed that I haven’t even considered. Again, Gut Reactor.

Waiting for Dr A, I commented on how beautiful Kristina was and Paul readily agreed. “How old do  you think she is? 40? late 40s?” I asked.

“She’s 75.” Paul dead panned.

As we are laughing, in walks Dr. A. He is unremarkable except for being rather pale with some very dark hair plugs. These hair plugs were not in his online profile photo.

“So, tell me why you are here today.”

“To quote Nora Ephron, I feel bad about my neck.” I laugh as I say this.

Nothing. No reaction. Even if you don’t get the reference, or you don’t think I’m clever (what?), a polite smile, nod, would be in order.

My Gut Reactor kicks into high gear. Clammy is advancing into perspiring.

Dr. A seemed bored with our questions . I realize he has answered anything we could ask hundreds, if not thousand of times. Humor me and put on your best “I really care about you and your concerns” face.

Pulling out a hand-held mirror, he has me hold it in my lap and look down into my reflection.

“When you are out to dinner, looking at the menu, this is what others see.”

OUCH! This is a low tactic. Do his clients respond  to negative reinforcement? I may have thought this very thing, but coming from him, it just pisses me off. (Yes, I looked awful from that angle).

“Anything else?”

Stung by the callous comment, I sat in silence.

Paul speaks, “What about her eyes?”

What a minute. What? My eyes? All the time I have been feeling bad about my neck, Paul has been feeling bad about my eyes! Who knew?!

Dr. A peers deeply into my eyes. “Yeah, you need it.”

The Gut Reactor melts down. Stomach is churning and head is spinning. Random thoughts are ping- ponging inside my brain….. You need fillers with your surgery? The doctor is a jerk! Paul thinks my eyes look bad? what am I doing?……

That is it. I want out of here.  I want to talk to my husband. I want a drink.And this guy isn’t clipping so much as a skin tag off of me.

SNAP OUT OF IT!  (Moonstruck)  I STILL feel bad about my neck

Adventures in Cosmetic Surgery, act three