Up in smoke

"Yes, hmm, the skin above the eyes, the wrinkles here (touching my dinosaur tracks), the neck. How old are you?"

"I'm 54."

"Her neck is terrible," my husband chimed in. "Especially at night, when she is tired, the skin hangs down. Her whole face looks haggard."

"Hmm," said the doctor. "Do you smoke?"

"Never put a cigarette in my mouth. Barely drink. No drugs. And up until three years ago I was running six to eight kilometers a day."

"Good, good, you don’t smoke. Smoking is bad because it slows down the circulation of blood that supplies oxygen to the skin. It impedes healing and encourages the formation of scars. The result is disastrous for healing wounds of any kind. It also cuts the time a facelift lasts in half.”

That was kind, I thought. He makes a recommendation that affects his business negatively.

Dinosaur dreams

Today, August 7, was the day! I finally called Dr. Delos’ office. I had been staring at that phone number for weeks but I was literally afraid to make that call. In my mind, picking up the phone was akin to picking up the knife, and dialing the number was tantamount to making the first incisions in my scalp.

What actually drove me to do it? The dreams, maybe. The fact that I survived, queasily, the blood test last week. Or maybe I was spurred on by my upcoming birthday -- I would turn 54 in four days. I didn’t FEEL 54, it didn’t weigh heavily on me . . . until I looked in the mirror. Then I could see that my crow’s feet had become dinosaur tracks and my jowls were approaching bloodhound-like dimensions.