PenWomanShip

From the diary of Cassandra Clarke

September 17th – My shrink, Dr. Meredith, suggested keeping this journal to get me ready for the next few months. She says it will help with some of the feelings and she even wants me to write about my dreams. It sounds hokey but it’s not like I have a lot of other things to occupy my time.

I haven’t looked in a mirror since the accident but today, I was compelled to examine my destroyed face....the reddened, rumpled skin, abnormally thickened or tissue-paper thin depending where I looked. Shiny and smooth between the folds like some alien volcano had erupted all over my features melting them into living lava.

I tried to remember my real face. To my horror, I couldn’t. I know that it was ordinary. I suspect that when I was with friends, its animation tricked some of them into thinking I was pretty. No one turned away or stared with guilty fascination. The accident turned me into a freak and no one wanted to see the evidence. If they can pretend that it can’t happen to them, then they can always be safe.

September 18th - It was early when I allowed my eyes to open. From the window in my ward, the sky was still dark behind the cold glare of the mercury lights that were supposed to illuminate the hospital parking lot. A skiff of snow had fallen and was swirled and dropped and swirled again, leaving a monochrome kaleidoscope on the asphalt surface. I turned back. Today is the day. By tomorrow I’ll have a new face.

It’s like a miracle. Mom saw Dr. Marten on the news a few months ago and when she sets her mind to something, she’s like a pit bull. She knew Dr. Marten when he was just Doug, a brainy nerd in her high school class so she just called him. It wasn’t easy but Mom wouldn’t give up. The protocol and the microsurgery have been available for ten years but they haven’t been used. Dr. Marten said it was a matter of ethics. Ethics?? How is it ethical to let a twenty-three year old woman with her ‘whole life ahead of her’ as they like to say, spend two years as a disgusting freak?

Just for the record, that stuff about beauty being skin deep and the inner person shining through? It’s crap. Nice platitudes for normal people to mouth. I can’t wait for my new face.

It’s too bad about the donor but I’m not going to dwell on it. She doesn’t need a face where she’s going. Dr. Marten said she came to a bad end on the streets. They couldn’t find next of kin but she had a driver’s license with the donor card signed. So she was alone and died alone?? I can’t do anything about it and if that sounds uncaring... maybe it is. But I passed that battery of psychological tests, didn’t I?

September 19th – My dreams usually don’t make sense but this one freaked me out.

“The surgery was a success. It couldn’t have gone better,” says Dr. Marten, a huge smile on his face.

My mother collapses into his arms. “Thank you, Dr. Thank you.” She wets his scrubs with her tears.

I look in the mirror. The new face is even better than I had dared hope. It looks like a younger Katherine Zeta-Jones. I am hot...really hot. I move back from the mirror and somehow my body is a match for my face. I can’t believe my luck.

I leave the hospital and head into the mall. People turn to look and I see what it’s like to be beautiful. I choose one of those expensive little shops, (not an international chain) to browse through. The clerks are most attentive. I’m liking this new me.

I leave the shop and go farther down the mall. People are still staring. I think I’ll have to get used to it and then I notice they’re more than staring; they’re gawking and it’s not admiration I see in their eyes. It’s a kind of ghoulish fascination. One mother turns her little girl’s head and hugs her protectively, crushing her face against her legs. I touch my face. What is wrong? I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass of a bookstore’s window. I can’t believe it. My new face looks like a hideous mask held in place with big, black stitches that let the muscle through.

“Frankenstein,” someone calls.

“Freak,” cries another.

There is a groundswell of whispers and taunts that gets louder and louder. I see an exit and start running.

And I run and run and I run.

September 20th – I could hear my mother’s voice, muffled and far away. “I think she’s coming around.” I struggled to hear and then gave up. I was in a cotton ball world; white and soft and warm. It was too hard to hear. I fell into darkness. Her voice faded.

I don’t know how much later it was when I really did wake up but this time, without warning, I was fully conscious. The room was bright and my face was on fire. I tried to touch it but my hands were restrained.

“Cassandra...ohmigod, Cassandra. You’re awake.”

“Muh faa hurr,” I said. I wanted to say my face hurt.

“Squeeze my hand,” my mother said. “Squeeze my hand if your face hurts.” I squeezed. A nurse appeared and adjusted the IV. Back into darkness, soft and quiet.

Every time I woke up, my face or truthfully the place where my face had been was prickled by darting, flaming pain. I could not wait for the nurse and the painkiller.

September 21st – I woke up in the night or maybe it was early morning. Mom must have been there the whole time. “How do you feel?” she asked. “No, Cassie. Don’t try to talk. You know that Dr. Marten said it would take 3 or 4 months or even longer for the peripheral nerves to regenerate. Everything is good. Dr. Marten is delighted with your progress.”

Maybe it was just as well that I couldn’t talk. It would only have upset Mom if I told her how scared I was. I couldn’t move my face at all. It was swathed in bandages, wound round and round like some mad embalmer had been by.

November 3rd – They let me out of the hospital today. My face is still swelled and I still can’t speak. What if the nerves don’t regenerate??? Then what??? I join Botox Babes Anonymous? I learn American sign language? I’m a whole new kind of freak?? I don’t have feeling in the skin. The pain has gone but I’m still so afraid. What happens when the bandages come off and I look like those monster Halloween masks or Jim Carey in Mask?

I can’t tell this stuff to my Mom. I, honest-to-God, think she is excited about having a pretty daughter. I hadn’t realized what a disappointment I was. My mother, head cheerleader, homecoming queen and student council social coordinator, produced a plain looking daughter. It must have been hard...I try to give Mom some credit, but did she think I liked being plain mousy Cassandra? Maybe I’m just having a bad day. I wonder if Catherine Zeta-Jones has bad days??

When I complained about her to Dr. Meredith, she said, “Give her a chance.”

And I said, “Like the chance she gave me?” That sounds so bitter.

November 13th – I can feel tingling in my lips! Yes! I still sound like Igor on a bad day but I can feel my lips. Maybe if I really tried maybe I could frown. And then just turn the frown upside down.

I’ve been avoiding looking in the mirror. You’d think I’d want to see, that I’d want to stare at myself and get to know the new me. I can’t explain it but I just don’t want to look. My Mom keeps trying to trick me into one little glance but I think Dr. Meredith told her to let me come to it in my own time. I’ll look when the transformation is complete. When I can smile at myself in the mirror.

November 30th – They took the bandages away today. It is frightening to have all that drying air carrying viruses and dust and pollen and who knows what else, caressing my new face.

Mom was ecstatic. That made me think that the new face is more than okay, but I’m still not ready to look. The numbness is slowly receding. I can feel my face more or less. The motor stuff is taking longer. I can move my lips a little but not in any productive way...like to form words. And what about kissing??? Is there someone out there with a fetish for lips?? Fleshy lips that don’t respond. It gives new meaning to the old saying, do chickens have lips??

Okay, I guess I could get along without kissing...but talking like this the rest of my life. I’ll have to work hard and long at face physio.

December 20th – I can’t believe it! The nerves have grown back. The last couple of weeks have been phenomenal. I can feel my face; I can smile; I can talk. Best of all, I can look in the mirror. I looked this morning, really looked. And- okay, I’m not Katherine Zeta-Jones but I’m close- more like Charlize Theron with dark hair. I rock!

The stitches have gone; the scars are fading and I’m wearing my hair long and down. I really am pretty. I might even be beautiful when the scars are gone and I have learned to use make-up to perfectly match the skin on my neck with the skin on my face.

My Mom is overjoyed. I guess she finally has the daughter wanted. The daughter she can dress and advise and make popular. I do want the new clothes and shopping for them will be fun. I can’t believe the number of things Mom thinks I should have. She said, “I’m throwing caution to the winds. Let’s max that credit card!”

December 24th – Christmas Eve at the mall. It’s crazy. People everywhere, scurrying like so many mice. Then, there’s the rhino shoppers... mind set on one goal, charging forward. I loved it all. Mom and I blended into the swirl of Christmas colour and gaiety. And we did nearly max the credit card. I bought tons of new clothes, shoes, the works. Mom was right. I do deserve all these nice things. They make me look and feel good.

My dream almost came true- at least the first part did. No one was staring, well, maybe a guy or two. They were safely in hand and with wives or girlfriends, but I caught them looking.

I have predicted nothing but great stuff for the new year. I cancelled my appointment with Dr. Meredith. I don’t need a shrink to know the future is mine.

January 19th – My face is perfect – no scarring and the muscles respond just the way they should. I am seeing three guys. They don’t know about each other. I can’t be serious about any of them now. I’m making up for the years of fun I missed after the accident.

Mom doesn’t complain. She always wanted a popular, pretty daughter and she can’t wait to hear everything. It’s like she’s my best girlfriend.

February 28th – I had a little scare last night. Jared and I were at the club and dancing like we do, wild and gyrating, lost in the music. When we sat down, I could feel my eyelid twitching. It felt enormous to me but Jared didn’t notice. It’s dark in the club and I was probably just tired. Dr. Marten warned me about regular hours. Maybe I should spend a day with Mom. She’s been kind of depressed lately. I don’t get it. She was always pushing me to go out, to have fun. “These are the best years of your life,” she’d say.

March 17th – My face is getting worse. Now it’s not just a twitching eyelid. If I’m the least tired or upset, my face spasms. It looks like I am making faces. What is wrong? I can’t ask Dr. Meredith. She probably doesn’t ever want to see me again after the way I dropped her. I don’t want to tell my mother. Dr. Marten isn’t so interested any more, either. He has new cases to work on. Maybe the spasms will just go away. I’ve done some reading. It could just be the new nerves adjusting. Yeah, there must be a period of adjustment. I’ll just forget about it. Tyler is taking me dancing. I’ll just dance the twitch away.

March 24th – Mom noticed last night. I’ve been learning to control my face and if I put my whole concentration on it, I can stop the jerking. Well, most of it. Mom said, “What is wrong with your face? Are you making faces at me? Cassandra, stop it.”

I yelled, “Nothing is wrong. Just leave me alone.” Then Mom got that hurt look she’s been wearing lately and got up from the table. She turned on the tv and didn’t speak to me not even when Steve picked me up for the movie. She’d gone to bed before I got in.

April 1st – I am the ultimate April Fool. I cannot keep my face still and Mom hovers and fusses and won’t let me alone. I could slap her...I’m so scared and she’s no help. I see Dr. Marten tomorrow. Getting the appointment wasn’t easy and I think it’s going to get harder when it turns out I’m not a howling success. Howling success- that’s funny. People will howl if they get a load of this face, contorted like a mass of worms is just below the surface, struggling to escape.

Doctor Marten has to do something, fast.

April 5th –This diary is my life-line. Dr. Marten doesn’t know what’s wrong. The man is a doctor – he is supposed to be the expert on this. He examined me and made this amazing set of sympathetic “uh, huhs” and other equally intelligent comments and wrote in his chart. I have some new medication. Yeah, that’s what I need. More drugs. I told him to find something. I shouted and threatened I’d take my story to the media. He called security to escort me out. Mom sits in front of the tv and if she looks up and sees me, she starts to cry. I haven’t left the house for a week now. Dr. Marten better come up with something. I have another appointment next week.

April 12th – I am going insane. Dr. Marten thinks he can help if he cuts some of the nerves. I can’t talk properly any more. I can’t control the face spasms any more and I’m back to my isolated existence except now Mom can’t look at me. I can’t sleep because my face twists and bends all night. I don’t want more cutting. The face- it’s not my face anymore- has a mind of its own. The medications are having no effect. Dr. Marten is stymied. Except, of course, for the brilliant plan to cut nerves.

May 1st – Dr. Marten did the pre-op consultation today. The face is out of control all the time now. Sometimes it quiets a little but I dread the calm spells. Afterward it twists and jerks like it’s angry, like it’s trying to escape for God’s sake. Will an operation help? It looks like it’s my only chance. Mom is grasping at straws and turning bi-polar over this. She is excited and depressed and excited and depressed. My mother is no help at all. May 8th - I had my ‘operation’ and some of the nerves that were severed stayed severed. It makes me look like I’m a young stroke victim. Some of the nerves regenerated. Parts of my face are botox-frozen and sag sadly down while parts are still writhing like worms.

There’s nothing more to be done. I’ll be like this forever or until the face rejects or until I die. Maybe dying isn’t such a bad thing.

Mom blames herself, but it’s not her fault. I wanted the transplant. I’d take another one tomorrow if I thought the result would be any different. But here’s the thing...and I have been thinking about this. I don’t think God or the higher power or fate wanted me to look like Charlize Theron or any one else. It wasn’t my face ever.

I’ve decided to leave home. How will I live? Well, there’s shelters and there’s panhandling. I think I’m uniquely qualified. There’s got to be of guilt money out there. What about my anti-rejection drugs??? I’ve got prescriptions. I can get them at any pharmacy on Mom’s credit card. I’ll call her once in a while so she doesn’t worry too much and I’ll use the credit card for my meds.

The great thing about the homeless people is that they don’t care. You have a story; you have a tragedy. So do they. You don’t look quite normal. Neither do they. You’re cut off from your family. So are they.

June 10th –I’m on the streets and part of it’s worse than I ever imagined and some of it’s better. There’s Louise. She’s teaching me to play guitar. I can’t sing and I can’t talk very well but the music speaks to me.

I went back to Dr. Meredith. She was pretty cool about it and listened sympathetically. She wants me to keep writing my experiences down. She thinks I should go home, but she didn’t push it. She asks what I’ll do when it’s so cold this winter.

I told her, “I’ll worry about it when it gets cold.”

Right now I’m going to take a day at a time. It’s beautiful in the early morning when the city is still asleep. I hear sparrows chirping; they take a day at a time, too.

Every day I panhandle near some of the up scale businesses downtown. Some days I make a reasonable amount. Some days I get abuse but if it’s too bad, I move on. By early evening, I wander down to the park. I know that Louise will be there, humming and coaxing the most incredible sounds from her old guitar. Some days I’m really tired.