January 22, 2020

I got terrible news at a procedure today, which has called into question every decision I thought I made properly in regard to my facial operations, various treatments, even my selection of doctors. The medical professional treating my face (who came highly recommended for this next phase) said that while my reconstructive surgeon is clearly an absolute master (the results do speak for themselves), I shouldn’t have received injections of ‘that’ particular product, I shouldn’t have gotten ‘that’ particular laser, I shouldn’t have done xyz in ‘that’ particular order. He said I’ve made poor and misguided choices, irreparably harmed my body both currently and down the line as skin ages, and not only wasted money on procedures that were either unnecessary or actually detrimental, but also now need to expend large additional sums on a myriad of new ones— and quickly.

​

Who and what am I to even believe? One of the single most difficult parts of this whole medical ordeal since my accident has been navigating the unfathomably complicated, utterly infuriating, near impossible decision-making process, finding doctors and medical professionals whose judgement and skill I can trust, committing to a certain course of action, and being confident moving forward in having made the right choice for me in that moment with all information available. Now, while in renewed excruciating pain, light-headed and nauseous, with a face that is burning intensely, increasingly sore and noticeably lumpy — though none of those symptoms raise alarm after the treatments I’ve undergone, mainly yesterday’s facial injections and needling — I’m trying desperately to process what happened earlier and what that means for my precarious health and critical next steps.

​

In all honesty, I hate everything about how I’m feeling both physically and mentally right now, especially in stark contrast to such hopeful progress so recently. And to add to the misery of the moment, I’m now at LAX waiting for a standby flight to SFO (because I missed mine) and vomited as I was being wheeled through the airport, triggering a big hubbub, though I’ve declined medic assessment or further care. I do not want to see another doctor; I just want to be home. I’m grateful for plenty, yet also exhausted, unnerved and distressed. Why can’t I win? Why can’t I make a seemingly good choice? Why can’t positive momentum continue? Why can’t the universe give me more than a fleeting break?