Cut: A Surgery Story (Part Two)

And, just as suddenly, it seems, I am conscious again.

"She's waking up," a woman says.  Though a fog clouds my senses, her voice is surprisingly clear and close.  The sensation isn't unlike driving down the Pacific Coast Highway, cradled by hills on one side and the ocean on the other, the radio tuned to my favorite station, and the DJ's voice cutting through unrelenting static.

The nurse's face comes into focus.  She's standing next to me.  She is petite, Asian.  "You look great!" she enthuses.  "Look!"

She holds a hand mirror in front of my face.  I had prepared myself for the worst, so I'm surprised at how unscathed I look.  My normally full lips are swollen to Angelina proportions, but other than that, I look fine.

As if reading my thoughts, the nurse swoops in with an economy-sized tube of Blistex and generously coats my lips.

Later, my mother will tell me that I spent two and a half hours in this holding room, but it seems like moments later that I'm wheeled into my room.  My mother is already there, perusing a new Us Weekly.  She seems totally composed, so I take it the operation went well.

She confirms this, telling me that everything went exactly as planned.  "How do you feel?" she asks.

"Mmmfffff."  I can't talk.  There's a web of rubber bands attached to my braces holding my mouth shut.  It's a little claustrophobic, and there's the metallic taste of blood in my mouth, but otherwise I'm okay.  My entire face is numb.  I inhale and exhale exaggeratedly through my nose and lie perfectly still, trying to project an image of calm.

"She's breathing really deeply," the nurse observes.  "That's good."

She indicates a tiny remote near my IV.  "Morphine?"

I nod.  She gives the button a press, and I drift off.

Cut: A Surgery Story (Part One)

I make it a point to be fifteen minutes early to everything.  So it's four fourty-five when I arrive at the Goleta Valley Cottage Hospital in Santa Barbara the morning of my surgery.  Immediately, I'm whisked away from my parents into what will be my private room for the next twenty-four hours.  I change into a short hospital gown and sit on the edge of the bed, alone.

As a child, I was afraid of everything: spiders.  The dark.  Airplanes.  Elevators.  Things normal people encountered everyday without a second thought were, for me, objects of terror: knives, electrical outlets, swimming pools.  But when I lived alone as an adult, I realized that the only thing I truly have to fear is my own mind and the accompanying depression that I'll fight to keep at bay for the rest of my life.  Suddenly, the phobias I had long harbored vanished.  I held a tarantula.  I assured a fellow passenger, who was hyperventilating, that the plane would not crash.  I watched zombie movies alone at night and slept easily.

Which is why, on the morning of my surgery, I am not afraid.

My parents file into my room, followed by a nurse.  She introduces herself as Nora.  I grasp her crinkled hand in my small, pale one.  She stares at my face, as placid and unlined as the bust of Nefertiti.

"You're a pretty little thing," she finally says.

She checks my vitals, takes my temperature and blood pressure.  Everything is normal.

I can tell that my parents are struggling to maintain their composure.  My father's eyes are moist, and my mother has a tiny crease between her eyes that won't go away.  I give them both lingering hugs, and as Nora and a male nurse maneuver my bed, with me on it, out of the room, I say, "I'll see you in three to five hours."

After snaking through several hallways, we come to a stop.  Nora says, "The anesthesiologist will be here in a few minutes.  I was supposed to give you a mild sedative when you arrived, but you seemed so calm..."

I'm about to let someone take apart my jaw and put it back together, and she's worried that a little needle will frighten me.

But I dutifully take the pill, swallowing it with a sip of water.

I lie back on the bed, feeling the sedative's effects immediately.  I know that my role for the rest of the day is a passive one.  From now on, I'm just a body.  Just flesh, bone, blood, and nerves.  I have relinquished control; I belong to the surgeon, the scrubs, and the nurses now.

The anesthesiologist arrives, and I offer him my slim arm.  I barely feel the needle go in.

My memories of what follows consist only of sporadic flashes, like photographs documenting my remaining minutes of consciousness.  I remember the blazing fluorescents in the operating room, as brilliant as football stadium lighting.  I remember giggling at a scrub's wisecrack.  I remember looking up at the benevolent face of my surgeon, framed by a halo of light.

I'm pulled under suddenly, as if the hospital has had a blackout, immediately killing every light.  One moment I'm conscious - the flurry of activity orbiting around me is surreal, yes, but I'm very much awake - and the next I'm not.

Glamour is...

I used to think that being young and thin gave me license to try to pull off whatever bizarre hash of clothing and jewelry I could throw together.

I'd make a game out of it: I'd pile on vintage bakelite and enamel, mix patterns and prints incessantly, and didn't care if the outfits I wore were unflattering.

If people didn't like what I was wearing, it was because they didn't "get" it.

Now I think that clothing and accessories should enhance a woman's beauty, not compete with it.

I used to think that the more carats, the more coats of mascara, and the more strands of pearls I was wearing, the more glamorous I was.

Now I think that there's glamour in sensual simplicity, in quiet luxury.  Glamour is a rich silk dress in a vivid hue that gently hugs a woman's curves; glamour is best accessorized with a unassumingly beautiful body and glowing skin, best punctuated by barely-there sandals.

Issa silk jersey dress available at Neiman Marcus.

Tostadas

"Fuck!"

"What's wrong?" I ask apathetically, without even looking up from the novel I'm engrossed in.  My 17-year-old sister swears indiscriminately, like a sailor; most likely, this most recent outburst was spurred by a hangnail or something.

"I just remembered that I have to bring thirty tostadas to my Spanish class tomorrow morning."

"Ay caramba!" I deadpan.  I glance at the clock - it's almost nine.  "Let's go to the grocery store.  You've still got time."  Her full mouth is still a thin, hard line, so I add, "I'll help you cook."

She snorts at this but grabs her jacket.  "You'll drive?"

"Sure."

Just as we're getting into the car, our parents pull into the driveway, back from some party in Newport Beach.  "Where are you two off to?" my mother asks.

"Getting the ingredients to make thirty servings of tostadas," I inform her.

My mom doesn't even raise an eyebrow; she's used to my sister's absent-mindedness.  "Like what?" she asks.

"Tortillas, shredded chicken -"

"Just buy some rotisserie chickens, the ones that are already cooked.  I'll help you shred them."

"How many do we need?"

"For thirty people?... Five," she estimates.

I haven't been driving for a minute before my sister's cell phone buzzes.  "Hello?" she answers.

I hear the metallic voice of my mother in the phone: "Make that six chickens."

My sister laughs as she hangs up.  "Tostadas for thirty.  Checking out is going to be almost as funny as that time you bought a bottle of vodka, a box of tampons, and Cosmo."

"Ugh, don't remind me."

A few minutes later, we're standing in an aisle of Ralph's, paper coffee cups in hand.  Neither of us know our way around the supermarket; we don't cook very much.  Nevertheless, we're doing pretty well until we hit a speed bump: late in the day as it is, there are only two rotisserie chickens left.

"Maybe... we could get these two, and then mix it with some pre-shredded chicken," I suggest hesitantly.  My sister agrees.

Another speed bump: we can only find cubed chicken.  "Maybe... we could kind of shred it up ourselves, with a fork," my sister hypothesizes.

We pile the assortment of fixings onto the conveyor belt, mostly things we never eat ourselves: beans.  Cheese.  White bread.

"Girlfriend, bring your cart over here!" the bagger ribs, because my sister and I are just standing in front of the cashier, clueless.

I comply, and my sister says, "Sorry.  We don't do this very often."

"What?  How do you eat?" he jeers.

My sister smiles.  "We don't, really."

"Unless coffee and Altoids count as food," I add.

The look on his face is priceless.

"I have another favor to ask you," my sister says when we get home a few minutes later.  "Since I've also got to write a paper tonight on a book I haven't read, could you start cooking the tostadas?"

I roll my eyes; my sister is very smart, but she's the worst procrastinator.  "Sure."

While my sister sits at the kitchen table, furiously tearing through Spark Notes, I start pecking at the cubed chicken with a fork.

I'm a lifelong vegetarian.  I have no problem wearing animals, but eating them is another thing entirely.  I've always hated meat: the taste, the smell, the texture.  My stomach turns; I clench my teeth, willing myself not to inhale.

"It's slimy," I complain, wrinkling my nose.

My sister shoots me an apologetic look.

By two a.m., I've successfully made thirty tostadas, despite my incompetence in the kitchen, and my sister has finished her paper.

She shuffles off to her bedroom, but her hand lingers on the doorknob.  She turns and says, "I love you."

My sister and I rarely say that to each other, not because we don't but because there's not really a need.  We've always been best friends, confidantes, as close as two people can possibly be.  Whether we're living on opposite coasts or in the same house.  We're only three and a half years apart, but she once said that God made a mistake when he didn't make us twins.  "I love you" doesn't adequately express the unbreakable hold we have on each other, the duality of our spirits.

But I just smile.  "I love you, too."

Photo: Ellen von Unwerth.

Five Things I'm Going Mad For This Minute (1-22-09)

5. Lost, Season Five Premiere

I've been an avid fan of Lost since the pilot aired five years ago; not only did last night's Season Five premiere fail to disappoint, Sayid looked so gorgeous...

4. Amy Plante Waterlily Ring

I like having nature at my fingertips: toting hyena-fur bags and wearing crocodile-skin cuffs (paradoxically, I'm a vegetarian; I'll wear animals, but I won't eat them).  This stunning, handmade ring from designer Amy Plante fits the bill: at once whimsical, organic, and sleek and sculptural, it's just one more way I can express my love for all God's creations through my wardrobe (and yes, PETA, it's cruelty-free).

3. Volver

My sister and I stayed in tonight and rented Volver.  I loved it - the storytelling is Hitchcock-esque, the cinematography is beautiful, and the acting is inspiring (as is Penelope Cruz's cleavage).

2. Emilio Pucci Miri Print Scarf

I adore my vibrant vintage Pucci dress, but for something more subtle, this scarf is a perfect and accessible way to wear the iconic brand.

1. Pink, Sober

I usually find Pink irritating, but this song is hypnotic.  Plus, the video's a tightly-edited barrage of sexy images.  Girl-on-girl action is tired, but Pink-on-Pink action?  Hot!

If I weren't married to Manhattan...

I'd want to drive this.

See mbusa.com.

Oops

I met a guy a few months ago at a lame holiday party thrown by the coffee shop I work at for its Orange County employees (he works for the same franchise, just at a different location).  When it was over, a few of us went out for beers, and I found out that we were like-minded: both creative types, former urbanites living reluctantly in O.C. Hell.  And although he was undeniably beautiful (pale and androgynous, covered in tattoos), I wasn't attracted to him.  Afterwards, I went over to his house to watch a movie.  As I drove home in the early hours of the morning, I thought, This guy is cool.  I can definitely be friends with him.

He invited me to a party his friend was throwing the next weekend.  When I arrived, it was past midnight and the house was full of gorgeous young people, spilling out into the backyard, drinking dancing smoking.  I found "Ink" (as I will hereby call my new friend) and was relieved that he seemed genuinely excited that I showed up.  He introduced me to his friends.  Everyone was very nice and friendly, but I still, as I was accustomed to doing, threw back a few Jack-and-Cokes to loosen up.

Predictably, it wasn't very long before I was pretty drunk, teetering around on my stilettos and flirting indiscriminately with boys and girls.  I excused myself from where Ink and I were hanging out in the backyard to refill my plastic red cup.  As I passed through the living room, weaving through sweaty, dancing bodies toward the sliding glass door, I saw Ink sitting on a low wall across a stretch of lawn, shoulders slumped, pale, skinny, perfect.

And in the moment, I decided that I was going to hook up with him.

Obviously, any half-wit with an iota of social experience could have called this outcome at the very beginning of this story, but honestly, it threw my inebriated mind through a loop.  I wasn't attracted to Ink and had happily accepted his friendship.  Why would I hook up with him?

I knew it didn't make sense, but my stiletto-encased feet were carrying me toward were he sat, one delicate (so as not to sink my heels into the grass) step after the other.

Our lips met before I had even sat down next to him.  He placed one hand on the small of my back, drawing me toward him, and the other entwined in my hair.

"You're beautiful," he breathed.

That was all the encouragement I needed.  Within seconds, I was on his lap, my legs wrapped around his waist.  As we kissed, his hands cupped my breasts.  A small moan escaped my lips -

And then his hands were suddenly gripping my shoulders, roughly shoving me away from him.

"Wait.  Wait."

"What?"

"You don't understand.  I am a bad person."

"No, you aren't," I murmured, leaning in to kiss him again.

After a moment, he broke away again.  "If we don't stop, I will have sex with you," he warned.

Ugh, of course, I grimaced.  Over beers the night we met, we had talked, among other things, about his string of meaningless one night stands and his desire to stop.  And I had told him that I'm a virgin.

When most guys find out I'm a virgin, they immediately treat me like I'm delicate.  Breakable.  "Is this okay?" one guy I dated would ask every two minutes while we were hooking up.  It's like they take on full responsibility for my chastity, as if I'm incapable of taking care of myself.

But back to my story: I fumbled for some kind of response to what Ink had just said.  "I don't want to fuck you," I said slowly, "and I don't want to marry you."  I gave him my best seductive look.  "I just want to kiss you."

It worked for a minute.  But then Ink shifted me off his lap and started to get up.

"I'm sorry.  I'm not a good person."

"Wait -"

Instinctively, I wrapped my legs more tightly around his waist.  When I'm drunk, I can be uncharacteristically possessive.

Thin as he is, I was no match for him.  He easily plucked me off of him and deposited me on the edge of the wall.

He walked into the house.

I downed a few glasses of water so I'd be okay to drive home and made my way through the crowded house.

Ink grabbed my arm.  "Are you leaving?"

"Yeah."

"Can I walk you to your car?"

I nodded, and we left.  We walked down the street in silence, holding hands.

"I'll call you," he said as I got in my car.

And he did, a few days later, asking if I wanted to go out for drinks that night.  I gave him a rain check because I was busy.  I never called him back.  I'm thinking now that maybe I should have.  We could have been friends.

Photo: Wild at Heart.