UNIV111 Reading
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
Monday, September 1, 2014
Mirrorings by Lucy Grealy
There was a long period of time,
almost a year, during which I never looked in a mirror. It wasn’t easy, for I’d
never suspected just how omnipresent are our own images. I began by merely
avoiding mirrors, but by the end of the year I found myself with an acute
knowledge of the reflected image, its numerous tricks and wiles, how it can
spring up at any moment: a glass tabletop, a well-polished door handle, a
darkened window, a pair of sunglasses, a restaurant’s otherwise magnificent
brass-plated coffee machine sitting innocently by the cash register.
At the time, I had just moved,
alone, to Scotland and was surviving on the dole, as Britain’s social security
benefits are called. I didn’t know anyone and had no idea how I was going to
live, yet I went anyway because by happenstance l’d met a plastic surgeon there
who said he could help me. I had been living in London, working temp jobs.
While in London, I’d received more nasty comments about my face than l had in
the previous three years, living in Iowa, New York, and Germany. These
comments, all from men and all odiously sexual, hurt and disoriented me. I also
had journeyed to Scotland because after more than a dozen operations in the
States my insurance had run out, along with my hope that further operations
could make any real difference. Here, however, was a surgeon who had some new
techniques, and here, amazingly enough, was a government willing to foot the
bill: I didn’t feel I could pass up yet another chance to “fix” my face, which
I confusedly thought concurrent with “fixing” my self, my soul, my life.
Twenty years ago, when I was nine
and living in America, I came home from school one day with a toothache.
Several weeks and misdiagnoses later, surgeons removed most of the right side
of my jaw in an attempt to prevent the cancer they found there from spreading.
No one properly explained the operation to me, and I awoke in a cocoon of pain
that prevented me from moving or speaking. Tubes ran in and out of my body, and
because I was temporarily unable to speak after the surgery and could not ask
questions, I made up my own explanations for the tubes’ existence. I remember
the mysterious manner the adults displayed toward me. They asked me to do
things: lie still for X rays, not cry for needles, and so on, tasks that,
although not easy, never seemed equal to the praise I received in return.
Reinforced to me again and again was how l was “a brave girl” for not crying,
“a good girl” for not complaining, and soon I began defining myself this way,
equating strength with silence.
Then the chemotherapy began. In the
Seventies chemo was even cruder than it is now, the basic premise being to
poison patients right up to the very brink of their own death. Until this point
I almost never cried and almost always received praise in return. Thus I got
what I considered the better part of the deal. But now it was like a practical
joke that had gotten out of hand. Chemotherapy was a nightmare and I wanted it
to stop; I didn’t want to be brave anymore. Yet I had grown so used to defining
myself as “brave”—i.e., silent—that the thought of losing this sense of myself
was even more terrifying. I was certain that if I broke down I would be
despicable in the eyes of both my parents and the doctors.
The task of taking me into the city
for the chemo injections fell mostly on my mother, though sometimes my father
made the trip. Overwhelmed by the sight of the vomiting and weeping, my father
developed the routine of “going to get the car,” meaning that he left the
doctor’s office before the injection was administered, on the premise that then
he could have the car ready and waiting when it was all over. Ashamed of my
suffering, I felt relief when he was finally out of the room. When my mother
took me, she stayed in the room, yet this only made the distance between us
even more tangible. She explained that it was wrong to cry before the needle
went in; afterward was one thing, but before, that was mere fear, and hadn’t I
demonstrated my bravery earlier? Every Friday for two and a half years I
climbed up onto that big doctor’s table and told myself not to cry, and every
week I failed. The two large syringes were filled with chemicals so caustic to
the vein that each had to be administered very slowly. The whole process took
about four minutes; I had to remain utterly still. Dry retching began in the
first fifteen seconds, then the throb behind my eyes gave everything a
yellow-green aura, and the bone-deep pain of alternating extreme hot and cold
flashes made me tremble, yet still I had to sit motionless and not move my arm.
No one spoke to me—not the doctor, who was a paradigm of the cold-fish
physician; not the nurse, who told my mother I reacted much more violently than
many of “the other children”; and not my mother, who, surely overwhelmed by the
sight of her child’s suffering, thought the best thing to do was remind me to
be brave, to try not to cry. All the while I hated myself for having wept
before the needle went in, convinced that the nurse and my mother were right,
that I was “overdoing it,” that the throwing up was psychosomatic, that my
mother was angry with me for not being good or brave enough.
Yet each week, two or three days
after the injection, there came the first flicker of feeling better, the always
forgotten and gratefully rediscovered understanding that to simply be well in
my body was the greatest thing I could ask for. I thought other people felt
this appreciation and physical joy all the time, and I felt cheated because I
was able to feel it only once a week.
Because I’d lost my hair, I wore a
hat constantly, but this fooled no one, least of all myself. My mother’s
friends were now all too willing to donate their discarded wigs, and soon the
house seemed filled with them. I never wore one, for they frightened me even
when my mother insisted I looked better in one of the few that actually fit.
Yet we didn’t know how to say no to the women who kept graciously offering
their wigs. The cats enjoyed sleeping on them and the dogs playing with them, and
we grew used to having to pick a wig up off a chair we wanted to sit in. It
never struck us as odd until one day a visitor commented wryly as he cleared a
chair for himself, and suddenly a great wave of shame overcame me. I had
nightmares about wigs and flushed if I even heard the word, and one night I put
myself out of my misery by getting up after everyone was asleep and gathering
all the wigs except for one the dogs were fond of and that they had chewed up
anyway. I hid all the rest in an old chest.
When you are only ten, which is
when the chemotherapy began, two and a half years seem like your whole life,
yet it did finally end, for the cancer was gone. I remember the last day of
treatment clearly because it was the only day on which I succeeded in not
crying, and because later, in private, I cried harder than I had in years; I
thought now I would no longer be “special,” that without the arena of
chemotherapy in which to prove myself no one would ever love me, that I would
fade unnoticed into the background. But this idea about not being different
didn’t last very long. Before, I foolishly believed that people stared at me
because I was bald. After my hair eventually grew in, it didn’t take long
before I understood that I looked different for another reason. My face. People
stared at me in stores, and other children made fun of me to the point that I
came to expect such reactions constantly, wherever I went. School became a
battleground.
Halloween, that night of frights,
became my favorite holiday because I could put on a mask and walk among the
blessed for a few brief, sweet hours. Such freedom I felt, walking down the
street, my face hidden! Through the imperfect oval holes I could peer out at
other faces, masked or painted or not, and see on those faces nothing but the
normal faces of childhood looking back at me, faces I mistakenly thought were
the faces everyone else but me saw all the time, faces that were simply curious
and ready for fun, not the faces I usually braced myself for, the cruel, lonely,
vicious ones I spent every day other than Halloween waiting to see around each
corner. As I breathed in the condensed, plastic-scented air under the mask, I
somehow thought that I was breathing in normality, that this joy and
weightlessness were what the world was composed of, and that it was only my
face that kept me from it, my face that was my own mask that kept me from
knowing the joy I was sure everyone but me lived with intimately. How could the
other children not know it? Not know that to be free of the fear of taunts and
the burden of knowing no one would ever love you was all that anyone could ever
ask for?
As I became a teenager, my
isolation began. My non-identical twin sister started going out with boys, and
I started—my most tragic mistake of all—to listen to and believe the taunts
thrown at me daily by the very boys she and the other girls were interested in.
I was a dog, a monster, the ugliest girl they had ever seen. Of all the
remarks, the most damaging wasn’t even directed at me but was really an insult
to “Jerry,” a boy I never saw because every day between fourth and fifth
periods, when I was cornered by a particular group of kids, I was too ashamed
to lift my eyes off the floor. “Hey look, it’s Jerry’s girlfriend!” they
shrieked when they saw me, and I felt such shame, knowing that this was the
deepest insult to Jerry that they could imagine.
When pressed to it, one makes
compensations. I came to love winter, when I could wrap up the disfigured lower
half of my face in a scarf: I could speak to people and they would have no idea
to whom and to what they were really speaking. I developed the bad habits of
letting my long hair hang in my face and of always covering my chin and mouth
with my hand, hoping it might be mistaken as a thoughtful, accidental gesture.
I also became interested in horses and got a job at a run-down local stable.
Having those horses to go to each day after school saved my life; I spent all
of my time either with them or thinking about them. Completely and utterly repressed
by the time I was sixteen, I was convinced that I would never want a boyfriend,
not ever, and wasn’t it convenient for me, even a blessing, that none would
ever want me. I told myself I was free to concentrate on the “true reality” of
life, whatever that was. My sister and her friends put on blue eye shadow,
blow-dried their hair, and spent interminable hours in the local mall, and I
looked down on them for this, knew they were misleading themselves and being
overly occupied with the “mere surface” of living. I’d had thoughts like this
when I was younger, ten or twelve, but now my philosophy was haunted by desires
so frightening I was unable even to admit they existed.
Throughout all of this, I was
undergoing reconstructive surgery in an attempt to rebuild my jaw. It started
when I was fifteen, two years after the chemo ended. I had known for years I
would have operations to fix my face, and at night I fantasized about how good
my life would finally be then. One day I got a clue that maybe it wouldn’t be so
easy. An older plastic surgeon explained the process of “pedestals” to me, and
told me it would take ten years to fix my face. Ten years? Why even bother, I
thought; I’ll be ancient by then. I went to a medical library and looked up the
“pedestals” he talked about. There were gruesome pictures of people with
grotesque tubes of their own skin growing out of their bodies, tubes of skin
that were harvested like some kind of crop and then rearranged, with results
that did not look at all normal or acceptable to my eye. But then I met a
younger surgeon, who was working on a new way of grafting that did not involve
pedestals, and I became more hopeful and once again began to await the fixing
of my face, the day when I would be whole, content, loved.
Long-term plastic surgery is not
like in the movies. There is no one single operation that will change
everything, and there is certainly no slow unwrapping of the gauze in order to
view the final, remarkable result. There is always swelling, sometimes to a
grotesque degree, there are often bruises, and always there are scars. After
each operation, too frightened to simply go look in the mirror, I developed an
oblique method, with several stages. First, I tried to catch my reflection in
an overhead lamp: the roundness of the metal distorted my image just enough to
obscure details and give no true sense of size or proportion. Then I slowly
worked my way up to looking at the reflection in someone’s eyeglasses, and from
there I went to walking as briskly as possible by a mirror, glancing only
quickly. I repeated this as many times as it would take me, passing the mirror
slightly more slowly each time until finally I was able to stand still and
confront myself.
The theory behind most
reconstructive surgery is to take large chunks of muscle, skin, and bone and
slap them into the roughly appropriate place, then slowly begin to carve this
mess into some sort of shape. It involves long, major operations, countless
lesser ones, a lot of pain, and many, many years. And also, it does not always
work. With my young surgeon in New York, who with each passing year was
becoming not so young, I had two or three soft-tissue grafts, two skin grafts,
a bone graft, and some dozen other operations to “revise” my face, yet when I
left graduate school at the age of twenty-five I was still more or less in the
same position I had started in: a deep hole in the right side of my face and a
rapidly shrinking left side and chin, a result of the radiation I’d had as a
child and the stress placed upon the bone by the other operations. I was caught
in a cycle of having a big operation, one that would force me to look monstrous
from the swelling for many months, then having the subsequent revision
operations that improved my looks tremendously, and then slowly, over the
period of a few months or a year, watching the graft reabsorb back into my
body, slowly shrinking down and leaving me with nothing but the scarred donor
site the graft had originally come from.
It wasn’t until I was in college
that I finally allowed that maybe, just maybe, it might be nice to have a
boyfriend. I went to a small, liberal, predominantly female school and
suddenly, after years of alienation in high school, discovered that there were
other people I could enjoy talking to who thought me intelligent and talented.
I was, however, still operating on the assumption that no one, not ever, would
be physically attracted to me, and in a curious way this shaped my personality.
I became forthright and honest in the way that only the truly self-confident
are, who do not expect to be rejected, and in the way of those like me, who do
not even dare to ask acceptance from others and therefore expect no rejection.
I had come to know myself as a person, but I would be in graduate school before
I was literally, physically able to use my name and the word “woman” in the
same sentence.
Now my friends repeated for me
endlessly that most of it was in my mind, that, granted, I did not look like
everyone else, but that didn’t mean I looked bad. I am sure now that they were
right some of the time. But with the constant surgery I was in a perpetual
state of transfiguration. I rarely looked the same for more than six months at
a time. So ashamed of my face, I was unable even to admit that this constant
change affected me; I let everyone who wanted to know that it was only what was
inside that mattered, that I had “grown used to” the surgery, that none of it
bothered me at all. Just as I had done in childhood, I pretended nothing was
wrong, and this was constantly mistaken by others for bravery. I spent a great
deal of time looking in the mirror in private, positioning my head to show off
my eyes and nose, which were not only normal but quite pretty, as my friends
told me often. But I could not bring myself to see them for more than a moment:
I looked in the mirror and saw not the normal upper half of my face but only
the disfigured lower half.
People still teased me. Not daily,
as when I was younger, but in ways that caused me more pain than ever before.
Children stared at me, and I learned to cross the street to avoid them; this
bothered me, but not as much as the insults I got from men. Their taunts came
at me not because I was disfigured but because I was a disfigured woman. They
came from boys, sometimes men, and almost always from a group of them. I had
long, blonde hair, and I also had a thin figure. Sometimes, from a distance,
men would see a thin blonde and whistle, something I dreaded more than anything
else because I knew that as they got closer, their tune, so to speak, would
inevitably change; they would stare openly or, worse, turn away quickly in
shame or repulsion. l decided to cut my hair to avoid any misconception that
anyone, however briefly, might have about my being attractive. Only two or three
times have I ever been teased by a single person, and I can think of only one
time when I was ever teased by a woman. Had I been a man, would I have had to
walk down the street while a group of young women followed and denigrated my
sexual worth?
The new surgeon in Scotland, Oliver
Fenton, recommended that I undergo a procedure involving something called a
tissue expander, followed by a bone graft. A tissue expander is a small balloon
placed under the skin and then slowly blown up over the course of several
months, the object being to stretch out the skin and create room and cover for
the new bone. It’s a bizarre, nightmarish thing to do to your face, yet I was
hopeful about the end results and I was also able to spend the three months
that the expansion took in the hospital. I’ve always felt safe in hospitals:
they’re the one place I feel free from the need to explain the way I look. For
this reason the first tissue expander was bearable—just—and the bone graft that
followed it was a success; it did not melt away like the previous ones.
The surgical stress this put upon
what remained of my original jaw instigated the deterioration of that bone,
however, and it became unhappily apparent that I was going to need the same
operation I’d just had on the right side done to the left. I remember my
surgeon telling me this at an outpatient clinic. I planned to be traveling down
to London that same night on an overnight train, and I barely made it to the
station on time, such a fumbling state of despair was I in.
I could not imagine going through
it again, and just as I had done all my life, I searched and searched through
my intellect for a way to make it okay, make it bearable, for a way to do it. I
lay awake all night on that train, feeling the tracks slip beneath me with an
odd eroticism, when I remembered an afternoon from my three months in the
hospital. Boredom was a big problem those long afternoons, the days marked by
meals and television programs. Waiting for the afternoon tea to come, wondering
desperately how I could make time pass, it had suddenly occurred to me that I
didn’t have to make time pass, that it would do it of its own accord, that I
simply had to relax and take no action. Lying on the train, remembering that, I
realized I had no obligation to improve my situation, that I didn’t have to
explain or understand it, that I could just simply let it happen. By the time
the train pulled into King’s Cross station, I felt able to bear it yet again,
not entirely sure what other choice I had.
But there was an element l didn’t
yet know about. When I returned to Scotland to set up a date to have the tissue
expander inserted, I was told quite casually that I’d be in the hospital only
three or four days. Wasn’t I going to spend the whole expansion time in the hospital?
I asked in a whisper. What’s the point of that? came the answer. You can just
come in every day to the outpatient ward to have it expanded. Horrified by
this, I was speechless. I would have to live and move about in the outside
world with a giant balloon inside the tissue of my face? I can’t remember what
I did for the next few days before I went into the hospital, but I vaguely
recall that these days involved a great deal of drinking alone in bars and at
home.
I had the operation and went home
at the end of the week. The only things that gave me any comfort during the
months I lived with my tissue expander were my writing. I started a novel and
completely absorbed myself in it, writing for hours each day. The only way I
could walk down the street, could stand the stares I received, was to think to
myself, “I’ll bet none of them are writing a novel.” It was that strange, old,
familiar form of egomania, directly related to my dismissive, conceited
thoughts of adolescence.
The one good thing about a tissue
expander is that you look so bad with it in that no matter what you look like
once it’s finally removed, your face has to look better. I had my bone graft
and my fifth soft-tissue graft and, yes, even I had to admit I looked better.
But I didn’t look like me. Something was wrong: was this the face I had waited
through eighteen years and almost thirty operations for? I somehow just
couldn’t make what I saw in the mirror correspond to the person I thought I
was. It wasn’t only that I continued to feel ugly; I simply could not conceive
of the image as belonging to me. My own image was the image of a stranger, and
rather than try to understand this, I simply stopped looking in the mirror. I
perfected the technique of brushing my teeth without a mirror, grew my hair in
such a way that it would require only a quick, simple brush, and wore clothes
that were simply and easily put on, no complex layers or lines that might
require even the most minor of visual adjustments.
On one level I understood that the
image of my face was merely that, an image, a surface that was not directly
related to any true, deep definition of the self. But I also knew that it is
only through appearances that we experience and make decisions about the
everyday world, and I was not always able to gather the strength to prefer the
deeper world to the shallower one. I looked for ways to find a bridge that
would allow me access to both, rather than ride out the constant swings between
peace and anguish. The only direction I had to go in to achieve this was to
strive for a state of awareness and self-honesty that sometimes, to this day,
occasionally rewards me. I have found, I believe, that our whole lives are
dominated, though it is not always so clearly translatable, by the question
“How do I look?” Take all the many nouns in our lives—car, house, job, family,
love, friends—and substitute the personal pronoun I. It is not that we are all
so self-obsessed; it is that all things eventually relate back to ourselves,
and it is our own sense of how we appear to the world by which we chart our
lives, how we navigate our personalities, which would otherwise be adrift in
the ocean of other people’s obsessions.
One evening toward the end of my
yearlong separation from the mirror, I was sitting in a cafe talking to
someone—an attractive man, as it happened—and we were having a lovely, engaging
conversation. For some reason I suddenly wondered what I looked like to him.
What was he actually seeing when he saw me? So many times I’ve asked this of
myself, and always the answer is this: a warm, smart woman, yes, but an
unattractive one. I sat there in the cafe and asked myself this old question,
and startlingly, for the first time in my life, I had no answer readily
prepared. I had not looked in a mirror for so long that I quite simply had no
clue as to what I looked like. I studied the man as he spoke; my entire life I
had seen my ugliness reflected back to me. But now, as reluctant as I was to
admit it, the only indication in my companion’s behavior was positive.
And then, that evening in that
cafe, I experienced a moment of the freedom I’d been practicing for behind my
Halloween mask all those years ago. But whereas as a child I expected my
liberation to come as a result of gaining something, a new face, it came to me
now as the result of shedding something, of shedding my image. I once thought
that truth was eternal, that when you understood something it was with you
forever. I know now that this isn’t so, that most truths are inherently
unretainable, that we have to work hard all our lives to remember the most
basic things. Society is no help; it tells us again and again that we can most
be ourselves by looking like someone else, leaving our own faces behind to turn
into ghosts that will inevitably resent and haunt us. It is no mistake that in
movies and literature the dead sometimes know they are dead only after they can
no longer see themselves in the mirror; and as I sat there feeling the warmth
of the cup against my palm, this small observation seemed like a great
revelation to me. I wanted to tell the man I was with about it, but he was
involved in his own topic and I did not want to interrupt him, so instead I
looked with curiosity toward the window behind him, its night-darkened glass
reflecting the whole cafe, to see if I could, now, recognize myself.
.
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
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