Face (9 page)

‘Hang on a minute,' Martin interjected. ‘Where will the skin come from?'

‘Well, I suggest we take some off one of your thighs. The skin at the top of your thighs is perfectly
all right and I only need a small amount. I need to do two grafts, one on your right cheek and one on your forehead.'

Martin was listening carefully to everything she had to say. He knew how important this was and he wanted to make sure he understood everything. ‘Will you be doing this operation, then, or someone else?' he asked.

‘I'll be doing it. I'll have my team of course but I'll be doing the actual surgery. Now, Martin, you can say no – after all, this is basically a cosmetic operation. You can decide to do without any surgery at all, because this is about you. You have the ultimate decision what to do or not to do and only you can truly decide what is a presentable face for you.'

There was a long silence before Martin uttered, ‘Heavy, man.'

Dr Owens stood up. ‘I will be speaking with your parents soon, so think things over and I'll talk to you later. It may sound heavy but it's just that I want you to take as much control as you can. You are the boss.'

Nurse Ling removed Martin's food trolley and they both left the room, leaving Martin alone with his thoughts once more. Martin spent that morning in silence, thinking about what was to come and periodically looking at himself in the mirror. Time passed and at around midday Dr Owens and both his parents entered the room. His father was carrying a bowl full
of grapes, peaches and bananas and his mother carried a vase of flowers.

‘Hello, Mom, hello, Dad. Put the fruit on the table and I'll eat the flowers now.'

His mother smiled, the doctor raised an eyebrow as if only slightly amused and his father said, ‘That's very funny, son,' as he put the fruit on the table which was now beginning to look like a fruit stall at a market. His mother passed him the flowers and he barely managed to find space for them on the table.

‘So what about the operation, son?' his father asked. ‘We think it's best, how about you, son?'

Martin paused for a moment. ‘What can go wrong?'

‘The only thing that I'm worried about is infection. There is a slight risk but because it's your own skin, the chances of that are extremely low,' said Dr Owens.

Martin picked up the mirror and looked at himself as he spoke. ‘When would you do the operation?'

‘I can do it any time,' Dr Owens replied, ‘but you should have a day or so to get used to the idea.'

‘Will there be a big difference in the way I look?'

‘Well, it's hard to say,' Dr Owens said while looking into Martin's face. ‘The colour of your skin will even out and you should lose some of the roughness, but we can never tell how big the difference will be. There will be an improvement, though.'

‘OK,' Martin said, ‘let's do it.'

There was a sigh of relief from his parents and the
doctor began to explain the procedure to Martin. Skin was to be taken from his right thigh. He would be given a general anaesthetic which would mean that he wouldn't see or feel a thing until after the operation. Dr Owens also explained that in her opinion he didn't need too much skin grafting and that maybe one operation would do. She told Martin that some people just keep having more and more plastic surgery in the hope that they will end up with what they think others think is a normal face. She thought this was an unhealthy attitude.

‘Whatever you decide,' she said, ‘this will be a testing time for you.'

Two days later, on the day of his operation, Martin woke early and decided to go for a walk on the ward. Unable to have breakfast before the operation, he walked around watching others having theirs. He was now playing a before and after game in his mind. He was trying to look at the other patients without staring and guessing whether those with facial injuries had had operations. Everybody became a before, an after or a don't know. He felt guilty doing this but he wanted to see what could be done by surgery. As he stood looking down the ward, Martin heard a quiet voice from behind him.

‘All right.'

Martin turned to see a boy about his age standing in front of him, with a face so disfigured that he gasped with surprise.

‘Wow – I'm sorry,' Martin's awkwardness was obvious and he could not stop staring at the boy's face.

‘It's all right,' the boy replied, ‘I'm used to it. Are
you Martin?'

‘Yes – how do you know my name?' Martin's eyes wandered around the boy's face. He now realised how his friends must have felt when they first saw him.

‘Miss Ling told me about you, said you were a West Ham supporter.'

‘Yeah, I am, are you?'

‘I'm not really a supporter, I've never seen them play, only on telly, but I like them. So what happened to you?'

This took Martin by complete surprise. It was the first time he had ever been asked the question and he was being asked by someone who he saw as worse off than himself. Martin didn't know how much to tell. He wondered if he should just say he'd been in a fire, or just in a crash, or should he say how he got in the crash. In the end he said, ‘I was in a car crash – the car caught fire.'

‘Gosh,' the boy replied. ‘How long have you been here?'

‘Just over two weeks – I'm having an operation today. How long have you been here?'

‘Well … I was born like this … well, not like this … but I was born with severe facial disfigurements. I've been in here six times and I've had eight operations. I could stay on one of the other wards if I wanted to but I like staying on this one. All the nurses
here know me and I like them. They're cool. I had an operation a couple of days ago and I'm going home today.'

Martin couldn't believe what he was hearing. He admired this boy's confidence. ‘What's your name?'

‘Anthony. Where's your room?'

‘Down there,' Martin pointed. ‘Do you wanna see it?'

‘Yeah.'

As they walked down to Martin's room, Anthony greeted most of the people in the ward, or they shouted hello to him. He seemed to know nearly everybody and Martin could see that he was well liked. Martin showed Anthony his many football books. Through the headphones he introduced him to his favourite rap tunes, and he ended up by showing him photos of his mom and dad. Amongst the photos was a picture of himself with Natalie.

‘Is that your sister?' Anthony asked.

‘No, man, that's my girl.'

‘What, your girlfriend?'

‘Yeah, man.'

‘What's her name?'

‘Natalie.'

‘She's not bad, guy. Is she sticking by you?'

‘What do you mean?' Martin asked, puzzled.

‘Is she still going to hang out with you when you get out? Some girls don't, you know. Some girls say “Let's just be friends” and things like that.'

Martin was caught off guard. He wasn't sure how to answer. ‘Yeah, man, she's sticking by me all right, she was here yesterday.'

‘Shame.'

‘What's a shame?' Martin asked.

‘It's a shame I didn't see her,' Anthony replied as he winked.

They both laughed and slapped hands. Then Anthony looked at his watch and headed for the door. ‘I gotta go, guy, my mom will be here soon. Don't worry about your operation, man, you'll be OK, they're good here. I'll see you around. Say hello to Natalie for me.'

Martin was on a high. Anthony had really cheered him up. The way Anthony talked about himself with ease inspired him and there was much about him that reminded Martin of how he used to be. Martin realised that although Anthony's face had shocked him at first, he'd soon forgotten about his face and become more interested in his character and showing him around. Martin climbed into bed smiling.

Martin had just put on his theatre gown when Nurse Ling and two men in white coats came in pushing a theatre trolley. Nurse Ling asked Martin to lie down on the theatre trolley, which he did in nervous silence, and they were off. He lay on his back watching the ceiling above him. He knew where he was as he went
down the ward but when he left the ward it was new territory. All he could see were ceilings and lights; every so often they would go through rubber doors. When he looked to his left he saw white coats, when he looked to the right he saw white coats. But although he couldn't see her, Nurse Ling's voice comforted him. ‘It won't be long now, Martin,' and ‘Not far to go now.' Then the busy, draughty corridors were replaced by the calm warmth of the operating theatre.

‘Here we are now, Martin,' Nurse Ling announced.

Martin could hear people talking about him. He was being referred to as patient B503. Nurse Ling stayed by him. ‘We're just double checking that you are who you say you are.'

‘I am not a number, I am a free man,' Martin said half jokingly.

‘Good morning, Martin.' It was Dr Owens leaning over him. She was now all dressed in white as far as Martin could see and looking very much in control. ‘This is Mr Carr, he's our anaesthetist today. He's going to help you relax.'

Mr Carr took Martin's arm and started to wipe a spot with wet cotton wool.

‘Now you haven't eaten anything today, have you, Martin?' His voice was well lived in and serious.

‘No,' Martin replied.

‘You're just going to feel a small prick as the needle enters.'

Martin felt it.

‘And now, Martin, will you count to ten for me.'

‘One, two, three … , four … , five … '

Martin opened his eyes slowly. He recognised the ceiling. He was back in his room. It felt like five minutes later, but in fact it was six hours later. The operation had taken three hours and it was now 5 o'clock. He lay still. His face felt as if it had been pulled and stretched in places; in other places it felt tight. He could feel that hands had been all over his face. His throat was dry and he felt very hungry. He began to check his limbs for feeling. Everything was coming to life, it all felt OK. He lay still for about fifteen minutes before he manoeuvred himself into his sitting position. Then he looked to the table for his mirror but it wasn't there. He rang his bell and nurses came running but he was told that he would only be given a mirror when he had seen the doctor. He had neither the strength nor the will to protest.

The doctor and Nurse Ling came soon afterwards. Dr Owens looked towards Martin and smiled. ‘Well, Martin, from a surgeon's point of view the operation went well. I'm sorry about having to remove your mirror but it's standard procedure.'

As the doctor was speaking, Nurse Ling left the room and quickly returned with the mirror in her hand. Dr Owens continued. ‘Your face will look and
feel more bruised than it was before you went into theatre but it will soon calm down.'

Nurse Ling handed Martin the mirror. He put it on his lap, and then the doctor and nurse left the room.

As soon as Martin was alone he looked into the mirror. The doctor was right: it did look worse than before surgery. Although he had been warned not to expect miracles, he had still believed that he would look much better. He could see the outline of the grafted skin and that the grafted skin was clearly a different colour from the original skin. His face felt tight. He raised his eyebrows but instead of the usual lines, the whole area of new skin moved upwards. Martin slammed the mirror down on his bed before reaching over to the table to turn on his personal stereo. His breathing quickened with anger. He put on his headphones and listened to music until he fell asleep.

Later that evening Martin had a visit from his parents. There was a little talk of how the operation had went. His father said very little as usual and his mother was being her kind, caring self. After forcing yet more fruit onto the table and removing the fruit which was now decomposing, she attended unnecessarily to Martin's bedclothes, smoothing out and tucking in bits of the sheets and blankets.

As she folded the bed covers under Martin's arms, she burst into tears, crying loudly. ‘Oh my God. What's happened to my son? What have I done, God? What's happening to us?'

Her voice was loud. It went outside the room and down the ward. She flopped over Martin's bed like a mourner over a coffin, weak and out of control.

‘My beautiful son, my beautiful son. Why did it happen to my son, why?'

She cried and cried. Martin's father put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Come on, Wendy, calm down. We ain't done nothing wrong.'

Just then Alan Green entered the room. ‘Now Mrs Turner, let's have you sitting down,' he said, taking her by the hand and guiding her to the seat.

She continued to cry but as the minutes passed, she began to take control of herself. Alan Green soothed her with his words, and then, as he left, he put a thumb up to Martin. Soon his mother was apologising to him for her outburst.

‘I'm sorry, son.'

‘Don't be sorry, Mom.'

‘I'm showing you up.'

‘What, showing me up in front of Dad?'

There was laughter as Martin went on to recall times when she had really shown him up.

After Martin's parents had left, Alan Green came back to see Martin. He wanted to make sure that
Martin was not too affected by what had happened.

‘How are you feeling?'

‘I'm OK, I think.'

‘Why, are you not sure?'

‘I feel kinda OK but I'm wondering if my mom knows something I don't know.'

‘No,' Alan said smiling. ‘A lot of parents act like that. Your mother also has to get used to the idea.'

‘But she was getting all religious and stuff, you saw her. I ain't never seen her like that before,' Martin said.

‘It's probably because she thought that the operation would put things better straight away.'

‘Yeah, I got a bit of a shock when I looked in the mirror myself,' Martin admitted.