falling face-first for the very last time

It was spread out like a last meal. The Blimpie sandwich was cut into neat little quarters. It was my favorite - ham, salami and cheese with onions, lettuce, oil and vinegar. A Devil Dog waited in its wrapper. Ice cubes melted in a large cherry soda.

Although saliva gathered in my mouth and hunger rumbled like a train in my stomach, my appetite turned to ash. Where was my usual boloney and mayo on Wonder bread? Why was Mom stationed like Vanna White at the table, a painful smile plastered on her face?

"What's going on?" I asked suspiciously.

"Nothin', babe. I got you Blimpie," Mom's voice oozed artificially sweetened syrup. Something was up.

"Where are Chris and Erin?"

"Aunt Theresa took them out to lunch. Here, sit and eat."

Twice before I had been lulled into bad news by a meal. There was the revelation that Mom was pregnant with Erin, and I would have to share my bedroom with a wailing newborn. That had prompted a McDonald's Happy Meal and a trip to Toys 'R Us. And just last year, there was the big "C" scare.

Mom had picked me up after school and taken me out for pizza, while Chris and Erin went home with my cousin. Sitting in Filippo's, Mom patted my hand.

"Noreen, I need you to help me the next few days."

"Okay," I mumbled, funneling oozing hot cheese from the slice into my mouth.

"You need to help Daddy with Chris and Erin," Mom's voice cracked and her lips quivered.

"Why? What's the matter?" I asked, putting down my pizza.

"I have to go to the hospital. The doctor found something and he wants to check it out."

"What did he find?" I demanded, suddenly angry with Mom and the doctor who "found something". Why couldn't he just mind his own business? We didn't need to find anything. We had enough problems that had already found us.

"It's probably nothing. Just a little lump in my...." Mom touched her breast, and the pizza turned to a brick in my belly.

"Is it cancer?" I asked a little too loudly. Mom looked around anxiously, hoping no one had heard.

"No, of course not! I don't know. I don't think so. The doctor has to take it out and check, that's all. He thinks it's nothing, but he has to be sure."

We walked home quietly. I stole quick glances at Mom's face to gauge how serious the situation really was. Her lips worked silently back and forth. I knew she was either praying or worrying. I was doing both.

"Can I stay out for a while? I'm going to see if anyone's in the park." I knew Mom couldn't refuse after what she had just told me. It was unfair to lie to her at this moment, but it was for her own good.

"Go ahead. But just for a while. Be home for dinner."

I kissed her on the cheek, something I had gotten out of practice in doing, and ran off.

Stopping at the entrance to the park, I turned and made sure Mom was out of sight. I bolted away from the park, and ran up the steps to our church across the street.

Incense enveloped me like a warm blanket. I sat in the back pew and surveyed the empty church. Interlacing my fingers tightly together, I said ten Hail Mary's in quick succession. I wasn't sure if there was a God, but I couldn't take any chances.

My eyes avoided the statues and stained glass windows. If there was a God, I figured he hung out in the dark wooden rafters, where it was cool and quiet and he could survey the entire congregation at once. I looked straight up at the ceiling and offered up my plea.

"God, please don't let Mom have cancer. She comes here every week and she is always polite to the nuns, even when they're mean. Mom really hates to throw up. I don't think she could handle that. And, she finally has a nice hairstyle. It would suck, uh, I mean stink, if she lost her hair now. Please, God, I swear I'll never ask for anything again. I'll say the rosary every day. I won't argue with Mom that I don't want to go to church. Please help her, and I'll help you. Lots of prayers and good deeds and stuff, and I'll take whatever you give me without complaining. Thank you, God. Amen."

I sat in the church a while longer, saying a bunch more Hail Mary's and Our Fathers and Acts of Contrition. I would do whatever it took and I would keep my promises to God, so long as he kept Mom healthy.

Mom's lump turned out to be nothing more than a benign cyst. I kept my promises to God, for a while. The rosary beads that I had kept under my pillow slipped under the mattress, and I never retrieved them. I used every excuse to avoid weekly mass, from cramps to softball practice. Complaints trickled off my tongue in a steady stream. And I had asked God for things. Lots of things. Stretchy jeans that made my butt look bigger. Passing grades on Math tests when I had watched a movie instead of studying. Giving Piss Pants Rick leprosy for telling everyone I had AIDS. And of course, the most frequent request of all: that the medication would work and make me look like a normal girl.

I had kept virtually none of my promises to God. And now, I was afraid I would have to pay for my lies.

"What's going on?" I asked Mom.

"Nothing! Just sit down and eat your sandwich before it gets cold."

"It is cold. It's a ham sandwich."

"Hurry up and eat it anyway. You have to get back to school, so go ahead and get started."

I chewed and chewed, but the sandwich just turned to glue in my mouth. Mom hovered over me, smiling at each bite. I took a long pull from my cherry soda and pushed back from my lunch.

"I can't eat like this. Tell me what's going on." I demanded.

"Nothing!" Mom protested, her voice high and shrill.

"Are you sick?"

"No!"

"Did Dad get into an accident?"

"God forbid!"

"Are we being evicted?"

"Of course not!"

"Then what's going on?"

"It's nothing serious. The doctor's office called."

In all of the weeks that I had been going to the dermatology clinic, they had never called me. Not once. This couldn't be good.

"What did they want?" I asked quickly, wanting to get the bad news out of the way.

"They want to see you tomorrow."

"But, why? I have an appointment on Friday."

"I know, but they need to see you now." Mom paused, her forehead twitching with uncertainty.

"They said you can't take the medication anymore."

"What? Why? Did we lose our insurance or something?"

"No, it's nothing like that. It's your blood work. There are some concerns."

Mom then spouted of a list of words shrouded in mystery: triglycerides, liver functioning, kidney-something-or-other. This was it. I was going to die. My obituary would read: cause of death - vanity. I had killed myself in the pursuit of clear skin. What had I been thinking?

"Am I okay? Am I sick?"

"You're fine!" Mom assured me, lighting a Salem and sucking on it like oxygen. "You just can't take the medication anymore. The doctors will explain everything tomorrow."

"But they told you I'm okay?"

"Yes! You're fine. Tell you what. We'll make a day of it tomorrow. You'll take off from school. After the doctor's, we'll have a nice lunch in the city. Just you and me. Then I'll take you to Sears and we'll get you an outfit. Whaddya say?"

Mom didn't know that shopping for an outfit at Sears could not be considered an award. But, it was what we could afford. Maybe I could pick out a tasteful dress to wear to my funeral.

"Sure," I shrugged, already feeling the life draining out of me.

I dragged myself back to school, dreading the diseases that could be ravaging my young body at that very second. Along the way, I stopped to stare in the side view mirrors of parked cars to admire my clearing skin. Tiny red bumps dotted my hairline, but the flashy Vegas showgirl pimples were nowhere in sight. My lips were no longer chapped and I hadn't had a bloody nose in a couple of weeks. The medication was finally working. I had survived the worst of the side effects. What would happen to me now?

With my shoulders slumped and my head hung down, I entered the classroom wearing a stricken expression to convey the hopelessness of my situation. I sighed heavily to ensure that no one would miss my mood. It was my one melodramatic moment, and I intended to milk it.

"What's wrong?" Tiffany asked.

"My doctor just called," I whispered with a sniffle. It produced the desired effect. Within seconds, every girl in the class encircled me.

"Are you okay?" Laura asked, petting my hair. I shrugged noncommittally, gulping for air the deliver the bad news.

"I might be dying," I croaked.

"Oh my God! Sit down. Tell us everything," Butch insisted as she guided me to her desk. I couldn't believe Butch was concerned for my health! She was the class bully, and had personally tried to end my life on no fewer than three occasions. Had I known this was the response my dying would provoke, I would have done it years ago.

Slowly, and with many breathless pauses for dramatic effect, I inflated the sketchy details my mother had provided. I wondered aloud if an iron lung could be transported to and from school. I hoped that I wouldn't have to wait long for someone with my tissue type to die quickly and painlessly in a car accident, donating a healthy liver and kidneys to me.

"I'm sorry. I just can't talk about this anymore. I'm feeling really tired," I gasped.

"Want me to braid your hair?" Tiffany offered.

"You should sleep over on Saturday, if you're not in the hospital," Daphne suggested.

"I'll talk to my dad," Sara asserted. "We'll organize a blood drive."

"Or a bake sale!" Butch added.

The girls fussed and preened over me for the rest of the afternoon. The attention almost made me forget that I was terminal. I envisioned my memorial service. There would be no church funeral. Instead, all of my family and friends would gather in the park. The children's choir would sing Amazing Grace. Balloons and doves would be released. The concession stand at the little league field would be named after me. Butch and the rest of the girls would cry over my coffin before I was buried under my favorite climbing tree. No one would ever recover from my premature passing.

The newfound celebrity brought on by my impending death had some perks. Butch carried my book bag home, while Tiffany and I lagged behind her. I was about to learn the deepest, darkest secrets of the prettiest and most popular girl in class.

After swearing on the lives of my family members, under penalty of my own grizzly death at the hands of Accutane, Tiffany felt safe enough to tell me her secrets. She leaned in so close that I could smell her cherry lip-gloss.

"I let Billy feel my boob," she blurted.

"Really?"

"Yeah. The left one. It's my favorite."

"You have a favorite boob?"

"Sure."

"Why is the left your favorite?" I asked.

"It's bigger and rounder than the right. And, there's something else." Tiffany's words came out in a low mumble. Her hands cradled her right breast protectively.

"I was born with a defect on my right breast."

"Wow! Does it hurt?"

"No, it's nothing like that. It's more...cosmetic."

Images of a green nipple and veined skin floated before my eyes.

"I have a birthmark!" Tiffany blurted.

"Oh. That's not so bad. I have lots of them."

"I don't know how you do it! No offense, Noreen, but if I looked like you, I don't think I could ever leave the house. Thank God my defect isn't on my face."

My fists balled and my muscles tensed as I prepared to punch Tiffany in her perfect mouth. But when I looked at her, I realized she didn't mean it as an insult. She was actually looking at me with an expression I had never seen on her unblemished face before - kindness.

"Really, you're so brave. I really admire you."

"Thanks, I guess."

"This birthmark, it's terrible! It hangs off of my skin, and it's hard and brown. It looks like a Raisinet! I'll die if Billy ever feels it!"

"Why don't you just have the doctor remove it?" I suggested.

"My mom says no plastic surgery until I'm eighteen. I don't know how I'll keep Billy away from my right boob until then."

We walked the rest of the way in silence. Butch and Tiffany insisted on helping me up the stairs. Butch clapped me roughly on the back, and Tiffany gave me a long hug.

"Remember. Tell no one! You're the best."

I thanked them both and walked into the apartment, confused and elated and terrified by all of the new developments.

The pampering continued at home. Mom made my favorite dinner that night - chicken and mashed potatoes with Stove Top stuffing and corn right out of the can. Forgetting that I might be dying, I ate every last kernel on the plate.

After dinner, Mom ceremoniously planted the remote control into my palm after fluffing a pillow and resting it behind my back.

"Now, don't you two bother your sister. She's not feeling well," Mom warned Chris and Erin.

I wasn't feeling well? Why? What was wrong with me? Should I not be feeling well? I cleared my throat to check for soreness, but there was none. My nose wasn't stuffed and my stomach didn't hurt and my bones were all in their proper places. Was I so sick that I didn't realize I was sick?

"Mom," I called from my deathbed on the couch.

"What is it? What's wrong? Mom came rushing in.

"Can I have some Advil?"

"What for? What's hurting you?"

"I don't know. Nothing. Everything. And can I have a wet cloth for my head?"
Mom felt my forehead with her cool cheek.

"You don't have a fever."

"I think I'm getting one. Can I just have the Advil and the cloth, or should I get it myself?"

"No, no. You stay there. I'll get it."

Mom raced out of the living room and came back with an Advil, a glass of Seven-Up and a cool, damp cloth. I popped the pill into my mouth, guzzled some soda and lay the soothing cloth on my head. Chris and Erin sat silently by as I surfed through channels and loafed on the couch. If this was the type of treatment I could expect while dying, I could get used to the idea.

I heard the key turn in the lock and sat bolt upright. What was Dad doing home? He was supposed to be driving the cab. I strained my ears from my perch on the couch as mom and Dad whispered at the front door. A few seconds later, Dad walked into the living room carrying a large white box.

"How you feelin'?" he asked cautiously.

"Fine. I'm fine. Shouldn't I be feeling fine?"

My paranoia was reaching hysterical proportions.

"Sure you should be feelin' fine. Just checkin'. Here. This is for you."

Dad handed me the box and awkwardly leaned down to kiss my cheek. Dad never kissed me, except for special occasions. It wasn't my birthday or Christmas, so the special occasion must be my impending death.

"What's this for? I asked suspiciously.

"Nothin' special. I was in the neighborhood and I know you like them. So, enjoy."

Dad watched as I opened the box to reveal an assortment of chocolate and creamy pastry goodness from my favorite bakery in Brooklyn.

"Thanks. But I'm not very hungry now."

"Why not? What's a matter? You don't feel good?" Dad asked as he scanned my face for signs of sickness.

"No, I'm fine. Just tired. I think I'll go to bed," I said as I pulled myself off the couch.

"You sure? You can stay up late and watch TV if you want. Your mother says you don't have to go to school tomorrow."

"No, thanks. Maybe some other time."

Nestled under my blankets, I began to worry in earnest. Dad was missing a night of work to bring me pastries from a bakery that was out of his way. Mom was keeping me home from school, taking me to lunch and buying me an outfit. Chris and Erin had been eerily quiet all day, not even protesting my possession of the remote. Fear snaked through me like an electrical current. What if I really was sick?

Mom and I walked through the cold clinic and headed straight for the lab. The doctors wanted my blood drawn before they saw me. I dreaded the rough nurse more than the painful prick of the needle.

In the beginning of my treatment, the clinic had allowed me to have my weekly blood work done at a small lab in my neighborhood. The old man who drew my blood was so tall and thin that he resembled a cardboard cutout. He was a kind man who let me suck on a lollipop while he stuck my arm with the long needle. Despite his calming voice and steady hand, I passed out virtually every time he drew my blood. He would patiently awaken me with smelling salts and then feed me sweet cookies and juice until I recovered enough to make the short walk home.

Several weeks into my treatment, however, my blood work showed some irregularities.

"These levels can't be right," the doctor scoffed. "They're much too high. We haven't seen these results in other Accutane patients."

"What does that mean?" Mom worried.

"It means that your lab is incorrect. From now on, I want the blood drawn here at the clinic. You can't trust these little mom and pop labs."

For the past two weeks, I had stopped at the clinic's lab before seeing the doctor. The nurse's fingers were bony and cold, and she always pinched my arm with her chipped nails while looking for a vein.

"Just so you know," I warned her the first time, "I pass out every time I give blood."

"Yeah? Well, don't," she shot back without even looking at me. Mom's neck veins protruded like worms and I shook my head sternly, warning her against attacking the nasty nurse.

Naturally, I did not disappoint. Each time she drew my blood, I awoke to find her blowing hot air out of her nostrils like a bull, impatiently waiting for me to vacate her premises.

I had a pleasant surprise awaiting me in the lab that day. The bony nurse with the ferocious nails was nowhere in sight. In her place stood an embarrassingly handsome male nurse with a toothpaste commercial smile and broad swimmers' shoulders. He handled me like a kitten and purred apologies as he guided the needle into my vein painlessly. I was so busy planning our wedding that I forgot to faint altogether.

"Good luck, gorgeous," my future husband winked as I floated out the door.

"Umph!" I responded as my forehead met the door frame on the way out. He winced in pain for me as I righted myself and rushed away before I could humiliate myself further.

The blush of newfound love (and public humiliation) quickly faded as I entered the exam room and was met by three of my doctors. I rarely saw the same doctor twice at the clinic. I didn't even know them by name. And I had certainly never seen more than one doctor at a time. On this occasion, Doctors A, B and C awaited my arrival. I wondered if there was already a gurney outside the office, waiting to whisk me to a room in ICU. Mom must have been sharing my thoughts. Her complexion went pasty as I felt the late onset effects of a faint buzzing in my ears. Mom guided me to a seat before my rubbery knees could give out.

"Hi, Noreen. How are you feeling?" Dr. A asked.

"Fine. I'm fine. I feel fine."

"She's fine. She feels fine," Mom added for emphasis.

"Good. We're glad to hear that." Dr. B nodded and scribbled into her pad.

"There are some things we need to discuss," Dr. C started.

"Your blood work is not good." I think it was Dr. A who spoke. At this point, I lost track.

"Not good at all."

"Troubling, actually. We've never seen results like this from Accutane."

"Nothing documented, at least."

"You need to stop the medication."

"Right away. You can't take it anymore."

"If you continue, there could be serious consequences."

"Liver damage, kidney disease...."

"We're not exactly sure."

"Interesting case, actually."

"Very."

"Yes. We'd like to do some tests on you. Some more blood work, some scans. Get a better understanding."

"The results would all be published. It's a highly irregular case."

"Highly irregular."

"Fascinating, actually."

"Indeed!"

"So we'll need you to sign consent, and we'll get rolling on the tests we'd like to perform."

"Just sign here, please."

"And initial there."

"Wait a minute!" I interrupted, my brain vibrating with questions.

"How sick is she?" Mom asked, her hands trembling in her lap.

"What?"

"Who said she was sick?"

"She's not sick."

"Not at all!"

"You mean, I'm okay?" I asked, barely keeping my voice under a shriek.

"Of course you're okay."

"You just have to come off the medication."

"Other than that, you're fit as a fiddle."

"Then why do I need to have tests done?"

"For research purposes, of course!"

"These results have never been documented."

"You are a very unique case."

"But what about her blood work? You said there could be complications." Mom was trying as hard as I was to piece together the doctors' puzzling talk.

"As long as she doesn't resume the medication, all of her levels will go back to normal in a matter of weeks. Everything should be fine."

"Now, how about that consent?"

"So, you're telling me I'm not sick?" I asked, a throbbing hot ball of fury growing in my chest.

"That's correct."

"What about my skin? What happens now? Will it keep getting better?"

"I'm afraid not. After the medication is out of your system, your skin will most likely revert to its previous condition."

"However, there are other remedies."

"Oral antibiotics."

"Creams."

"Gels."

"Have you tried avoiding greasy foods?"

"How about a sugar-free diet?"

"Are you people crazy?" I erupted, jumping to my feet. Mom stood next to me, her hand protectively on my back.

"Pardon?"

"Do you have any idea what I've been through?"

"We know treatment has been...."

"I've eaten most of my meals through a straw. Kids say I have AIDS. My nose bleeds so bad that my sheets look like a crime scene. I hurt everywhere. I used my own face as a Science project. And now you say it was all for nothing?"

Tears of rage coursed down my face as my finger pointed accusingly at each of the doctors.

"Calm down," Mom warned.

"I will not calm down! And I will not be a goddamned guinea pig. You're not doing any more tests. You're not taking any more of my blood. I'm finished. Fuck all of you!"

"Noreen!" Mom gasped in horror.

I raced out of the room, leaving Mom with the doctors. I was too infuriated to be fearful that I had just used the "F" word in front of my mother.

I waited for Mom on the sidewalk outside of the clinic. Steam rose up from a manhole cover. A vendor was selling roasted peanuts on the corner. The streets were crawling with people rushing towards warmer places. A numbing emptiness crowded out all of the air in my chest. I had never felt so alone.

I had seen every doctor and tried every remedy. I wanted so badly to trust them, to believe that they could turn me into the kind of girl I longed to be. I had done it all, and it had failed. I would never see another dermatologist. There would be no more poking or prodding, no more mysterious pills or sickening side effects. This was me, as I was and probably always would be.

I was on my own.

Continue reading...

my letter to the world

The little slip of paper in my school bag weighed more than all of my books combined. I trudged home with the burden in my bag, scheming ways around it. I could transfer to public school, with the excuse that I wanted to save my parents' money. Given that I had just asked for a new ten-speed bike, I doubted they'd believe that one. I could contract mono and be home-schooled for the rest of the year. But mono was the kissing disease. First, I'd have to find a boy with mono. Then, I'd have to convince him to kiss me. Not likely. Maybe I could get abducted! There had been a rash of kidnappings out on Long Island. I could visit my aunt in Massapequa and hang out at the mall. I could appear really low maintenance, weak and meek, a girl who wouldn't scream or fuss or fight. I didn't really know what that girl would look like, and the thought of what would happen once I was kidnapped sort of scared me, so that one was out. There was no avoiding it. I had no recourse. I had to participate in the Science Fair.

Science was my least favorite subject. There was no wiggle room, no talking yourself in circles around a question. There was a right and a wrong, a yes and a no, and I usually found myself on the losing end of the equation. And there was no way I could win. Not with kids like Vin and Sara in my class. Vin's father was an engineer, and helped him build models and conduct experiments that not even our teachers understood. He usually won the top prize, by simple virtue of the fact that he (and his father) knew more than the entire teaching staff combined. Sara's father was a surgeon. She brought in jars with things floating in formaldehyde, and wrote whole encyclopedias on their contents. I never really knew what was inside those jars. The gross factor kept me far away. With no chance of placing in the science fair, I quickly lost interest and left my chances up to fate, (and Mom).

My previous science projects had involved as little time and effort as possible, and Mom usually had a heavy hand in them. She vibrated with excitement every time I came home with a Science project to complete. There was the year we turned white flowers purple by mixing food coloring into the flowers' water. The problem was, about four other kids (and their parents) had had the same project idea, and the Science Fair was punctuated by purple and green and orange daisies in paisley-colored water.

Mom got truly inspired the year after the purple daisy disaster. She found a black and white Science book with pictures of girls wearing poodle skirts, and settled on a revolutionary project involving earthworms. It was simple, it was quick, and it involved no actual thought. I was all in. We only had to wait for the optimal conditions in order to collect our specimens.

Rain bounced off our windows like bullets in the dark night. Mom quietly donned a raincoat, chuckling and shushing me the whole time. I was giddy with the knowledge that what we were doing was forbidden, but I was also worried about Mom going out into such a heavy downpour.

"Can't you wait until it stops raining?" I asked.

"No, Noreen. The book says it's easiest to collect worms in the rain. They come up to the surface so they won't drown or something. I hope I don't get caught!"

Mom giggled like a little girl with a secret, and I realized that this was fun for her. She threw a towel out the window into the backyard and snuck out the door, armed with a Ziploc bag, a glass jar and a beach shovel. I raced back to the window overlooking the backyard to act as her scout.

Our crusty old landlords never let us use the backyard. We were only allowed to set foot in it to rescue laundry that fell off the clothesline suspended over the yard. Mom threw the towel out the window so she would have an excuse for being in the backyard. I wondered how she would explain away everything else she was carrying.

The landlords never used the backyard anyway. A large plot of dirt lay barren, with no flowers or plants or even weeds growing in it. The plot was guarded by a sinister-looking statue of the Virgin Mary; her eyes glowered and her lips turned down in disapproval. She closely resembled the miserable old Italian lady downstairs, who always looked like she had been sucking lemons, but smelled like she had been sucking sardines.

The screen door squeaked open below. It sounded like cracked fingernails inching down a chalkboard. Mom tiptoed slowly over to the dirt, looking up at me and waving wildly. She quickly went to work, scooping dark mud into the jar. Once the jar was full, she plucked long strands of what looked like squirming spaghetti out of the dirt, and placed them in the Ziploc bag. I trembled with nerves at my post, terrified she'd be caught and we'd be forced to live with my aunt in Massapequa, where men cruised in blue vans snatching kids off the street.

"Come on, Mom. You got enough. Get outta there!" I whispered at the window.

Finally, Mom disappeared from the backyard and slipped back into our apartment. She was soaked and soggy, streaked with mud, triumphantly holding up the mud jar and the Ziploc full of fat earthworms.

"Don't ever say I don't love you," she smirked, feigning. But I knew she had loved every second of her earthworm excavation.

Mom did not have to fake anger when I didn't win any awards for my earthworm project.

"Unbelievable! Not even an honorable mention. How many clay hearts or exploding volcanoes can they have every year? This project was original! Unique! Honestly, Noreen. I just don't know what those nuns are looking for. But they were wrong this year."

We walked home from the Science Fair, Mom cradling the jar of worms like a newborn baby. The project had only consisted of putting the worms in a jar of dirt, and watching them burrow paths around the jar. I didn't really understand the point of the project myself, but Mom was excited by it and did most of the work, so I didn't complain. The worms remained on our kitchen counter for weeks after that, and then one day they were gone. I wondered if Mom snuck out in the middle of a storm to return them to their muddy home beneath the unsettling eyes of the Virgin Mary. Then again, she might have found them a better home, in a garden full of flowers. She had become pretty attached to them.

This year, however, there would be no help from Mom. She had declared me "old enough to do it yourself". The kiss of academic death. I exhausted every tactic:

"Mom, you're way smarter than me. I can't do it without you."

"Tough. You'll learn."

"Mom, I really enjoy spending time with you, Mommy, and working on this project is one way to
do fun stuff together."

"Really, darling? Then why don't you skip Diane's party Friday night and we'll go see a movie together?"

A silence as loud as thunder surrounded us. If I went to a movie with my mother, would she help me (translation: do) my project? If I missed Diane's party, how would I know who spent seven minutes in heaven with whom? Would I be missing an opportunity to spin the bottle and land my first kiss while I sat through 3 Men and a Baby with my mother?

"Forget it, Noreen. You're doing your own project this year and that's it. Besides, your brother's in fifth grade now, and it's his first Science Fair. He'll need my help."

So this was how it was going to be. I had been dumped for my brother. Maybe Mom thought she'd have more luck winning with Chris than she had had with me. I daydreamed of ways to sabotage Chris' (Mom's) project as I ransacked my brain to come up with one of my own.

I dozed in the dermatologist's waiting room, waiting for my weekly appointment. After several sleepless nights and countless hours in the library, I had still not settled on a project. Glancing up, I saw Mom peering at me over the top of an Accutane brochure. Her eyes appraised every inch of my face as her forehead scrunched up in a tangled mess of worried lines. I knew Mom was comparing my complexion to the before and after pictures featured in the Accutane brochure. I had been on the medication for about eight of the twenty weeks of treatment, and my skin looked no better. My acne had settled comfortably into my pores. I imagined each little pimple burrowing deep under my skin, moving in furniture and preparing to live in my cells forever. The pimple colony was clearly ignoring my obvious eviction notices. I felt like a Petri dish. I was a Petri dish. And that's when it hit me.

I didn't need to come up with a Science experiment, I was a Science experiment! As I made a mental list of everything I would need, I shoved fistfuls of Accutane pamphlets into my bag.

"What are you doing, Noreen?" Mom mumbled under her breath, mortified by my sudden compulsion to horde reading material.

"Tell you later," I whispered back as I composed my winning Science essay in my head.

"I don't know, Noreen. Are you sure that's something the nuns would accept?" Mom worried after I explained my idea on the way home from the doctor.

"Why not? I can write an essay on acne, describe what causes it, and show all of the different treatment options available. And the best part is, I'm part of the actual experiment. My face will be right there for them to see. The Accutane brochures only show the before and after pictures. I'm a living example of the during. What's wrong with that?"

"But what will people say?" Mom chewed her fingers nervously. I knew that's what was bothering her. My project would be an open invitation to everyone to stare and laugh and insult. Mom turned into a rabid bulldog whenever she heard anyone taunting me. I worried that she would eventually end up in jail for defending me.

The previous week, on our way to the dermatologist, Mom and I approached a group of teenaged girls hanging out on a corner. I could practically taste the insults waiting on their tongues, and I braced myself for the verbal grenades that were about to be lobbed at me. Naturally, the kids did not disappoint.

"Hey, crater face! Any space ships land on your surface lately?"

"I was gonna eat some pizza, but after seeing that pizza face I lost my appetite."

"Can't your mother afford some soap to scrub those zits off you?"

Keeping my head down, I studied the cracks in the sidewalk and quickened my pace. While staring down at my Nikes, Mom's sensible walking shoes disappeared from my side. Before I could turn to see where she had gone, I heard the roar of her voice, inhuman with hate and rage.

"What the hell's the matter with you little punks?" Mom's pointer finger was dangerously close to the nostrils of the largest of the girls. I wasn't sure if I should keep walking and pretend it wasn't happening, or prevent my mother from ripping out the girl's nose ring. I waited and watched, wondering if embarrassment could possibly cause spontaneous combustion.

"You think she wants to look like this? She's on medication. What's your excuse, you fat slob?"

The large girl was clearly losing patience, and I was losing face. I ran over to Mom and yanked her by the elbow, just as she was rolling up her sweater sleeves.

"Forget it, Mom. Let's get outta here." I pleaded.

"Punks! Somebody oughta teach you a lesson. You better hope I don't run into you again. You slob!"

The girls cackled and sneered as I dragged Mom down the street.

"See ya later, Pizza Face. Bye, Mommy!" The big girl waved and blew kisses, daring Mom to rush back and rip her tongue out.

"You'll get yours. You'll see. Punk!"

I didn't dare let go of Mom's arm until we were safely inside the doctor's office. I was proud of her for not gouging out the girl's eyes. I was equally proud of myself for not crying until I reached the relative privacy of the exam room.

"Whatever people say, I've heard it all before," I assured Mom.

I had stayed quiet for so long. This was my chance to speak. I wanted my project to explain that the acne wasn't my fault: I wasn't dirty or addicted to grease. I didn't want to hide and pretend that this wasn't happening to me anymore. I was tired of being the pockmarked elephant in the room. Maybe, just maybe, if I brought it out into the open and put it all on display, it would lose some of its novelty and fade away into the background.

"All right, Noreen. If you're sure that's what you want to do. Do you need my help?" Mom asked.

"Yes. Get me two mannequin heads."

"I hope you know what you're doing."

"Of course I do."

I lied.

I held Jane by the back of her head and punctured her cheek just below the left eye. The screwdriver slid in with surprising ease, gouging out a deep crater. Moving on to her chin, I used quick stabbing motions to burrow out holes. As I worked across her nose, cheeks and forehead, my movements became faster and more furious. Years of pent-up rage and hurt exploded out my arm, exacting revenge across her face. Her lifeless eyes sat like stones in her sockets as I decimated her complexion.

Cassandra looked on impassively. A slight smirk played on her passion fruit-painted lips. Jane and Cassandra had been identical, until I had gotten my hands on them. Mom had brought them home from a wig shop, and I knew exactly what I wanted to do to each of them.

Jane was my "before Accutane" model. I dotted her now pockmarked complexion with angry red paint, throwing in splashes of purple and blue for dramatic flair. Her lips were a sickly gray, and I chipped away some of the Styrofoam around her mouth to denote chapped skin. Using canary yellow paint, I drew dull, limp locks of hair around her inflamed face. Jane looked utterly dejected, so I added a touch of pink rouge to her cheeks and purple shadow to her eyes to brighter her up a bit. Every girl wanted to look her best, and my plain Jane was no exception.

Cassandra was my "after Accutane" beauty, which called for an exotic name. She was not to be called "Cassie" or even "Sandra"; her beauty demanded that she be called by her full and proper name at all times. Her lips curled up in an inviting smile, thanks to my careful application of lipstick. Aqua blue eyes glimmered under a shimmery peach shadow. Chocolate curls framed her delicate features, and I stuck a ruby hairpin into the hairline to accentuate her eyes. For realism, I gently added a dab of red on the chin to hint at a tiny little blemish.

My Science project was promising to be very visual. I emptied the medicine cabinet of all the skincare products and prescriptions I had used over the years. I had a virtual pharmacy of remedies: over the counter creams and soaps and lotions, prescription antibiotics and ointments, home remedies like toothpaste and zinc oxide. I carefully penned a description of each item and its supposed benefits on an index card to be displayed under each remedy.

I then raided the kitchen for samples of foods that were thought to cause acne: chocolate and soda and potato chips. I labeled this section of supporting data: "Nature or Nurture? Is acne caused by the foods that you eat or the genes in your body?" I wrote a persuasive essay arguing that it is in fact nature that is responsible for most cases of acne, with direct quotes from my team of dermatologists. The experts were all on my side.

I had been so involved perfecting the complexions of Jane and Cassandra that I hadn't bothered to look at my own. When I finally glimpsed myself in the mirror, I took a long, hard look at myself for the first time in weeks. It was as if a mask were slowly being peeled away from my face. Patches of clear, healthy skin were making a path across my complexion. The previous mountains were being reduced to molehills. My cheeks were a perky pink instead of an enraged red. Stubborn pimples hunkered down around my hairline and chin, puffy and brazen, but it looked like their days were numbered. For the first time, I spied the pretty girl I could be. The experiment was working!

Inspired by my budding beauty, I sat down to complete my project. It was a virtual love letter to the makers of Accutane. A large piece of oak tag queried: "Accutane - The Answer?" Underneath it, I glued before and after pictures from the Accutane brochure, along with quotes from patients and doctors. Included was my final essay. There, I described the emotional pain of acne as being far greater than the physical discomfort. I then detailed all of the failed treatments I had endured, the doctors I had entrusted, the Ouija boards I had consulted. Accutane, I wrote, was the cure I had been longing for, and I was lucky to have finally found it. I concluded my essay with a plea for compassion for acne sufferers, and a reminder that everyone deserved to be treated with respect. The nuns would be proud to see that their teachings had penetrated my thick skull. That had to be worth at least an honorable mention.

The burn of bile raced up the back of my throat. Racehorses pounded furiously in my chest. Earthquakes erupted inside of me, causing my hands to tremble uncontrollably. I could not go to the Science Fair.

What had I been thinking? I was going to be crucified once I walked through those doors. This was all my mother's fault. If she had only done my project for me, I wouldn't be facing a social execution.

"Ready, Noreen?" she asked, holding out my coat.

"Not going."

"Yeah, you are. Come on. We're gonna be late."

"Can't. I have a stomach ache."

"Tough. Take a Tums."

"But, Mom...."

"But nothin'. Let's go."

Reluctantly, I stood to face the firing squad that would no doubt slaughter me with ridicule. My only hope was that Vin and his father had invented a time machine that would cart me away before the humiliation hit.

The smell of gym class sweat and Sunday bingo cigarette smoke hung in the air of the auditorium. The chatter of conversation buzzed in my ears. Mom took my coat and not so gently pushed me in the direction of my project, where I was to stand and answer questions for the evening. I stood facing Jane and Cassandra. They looked angrily at me, asking with their eyes:

"How could you humiliate us like this?" I would have gladly traded places with either of those Styrofoam heads in an instant.

I thought of the Dragon Coaster at Playland. I had waited for years to be tall enough to ride it with my father. Finally, by the age of nine, I had reached the height limit. I eagerly anticipated the steep drop, until we got to the top and looked straight down at our deaths. The only way through it was to throw my arms in the air and act like I enjoyed every inch of it. I couldn't raise my arms and scream in the auditorium, but I could fake bravery.

I concentrated on my project, arranging and rearranging my exhibit. While I was adjusting Cassandra's hairpin, I heard a gurgle of phlegm behind me.

"Wow! You did a project on how ugly you are?" Timmy was frothing with giggles. Whenever he laughed, spit bubbled out of the corners of his mouth and splashed whoever was unlucky enough to be hear him. I flinched in anticipation of the spit shower headed my way.

"Go away, Timmy. I'm busy." I would not waste any good insults on this loser. He looked like a garden gnome and smelled like a sweat sock after soccer practice in the rain.

"Oh, man. I can't wait for everyone to see this. Guys, come and see. Noreen did a project on her zits. You gotta see.... Oww!"

"Shut your mouth, you dumb goon. Sorry, Noreen." Timmy's mother had wacked him in the back of the neck.

"Timmy, tell Noreen you're sorry," his mother demanded.

"Okay. Sorry, Noreen. Sorry you're ugly! Oww! Would ya stop, Ma?" A second slap stung the back of his neck.

"Don't pay any attention to him. He's an idiot. The curse of my life. Let's go, stupid."

As I watched Timmy's mother yank him away by the ear, I remembered Dad saying that there was always someone worse off than me. At that moment, I felt luckier than Timmy and his mother.

Once that first humiliation was out of the way, I was ready for the rest. Sharpening my mental pencil, I prepared some pretty witty comebacks. As it turned out, however, none were necessary.

Teachers, parents and kids paraded past my project. There were some muffled chuckles, but for the most part, my project inspired silence. Each person read all of the information and flipped through the pamphlets. Several times I caught adults sneaking glances at my complexion, and I pretended to be staring at my shoes so they could get an eyeful. After all, I was on my way to becoming an Accutane success story. They could look all they wanted. Within weeks, I would be unrecognizable as the former Zithead. I would soon be sporting a clear complexion.

Arms engulfed me, squeezing the air out of my lungs. The smell of baby powder and floral perfume choked me as I was smothered by an armpit.

"Oh, Noreen. You are very very brave. Bravo. Very brave. Just wonderful!" Miss Luigi, the fourth grade teacher, attempted to asphyxiate me with her bulk.

"Fank hue," I muttered into her bosom, trying to free myself without seeming rude. When she finally released me, I gulped air like a dying fish.

I had several unexpected hugs and encouraging pats on the back that night. The attention made me feel uncomfortable, but it was preferable to the name calling and cackling I had expected.

By the end of the night, I was ready to pack up Jane and Cassandra and head home. The fake smile I had plastered across my face made my jaw ache. I just wanted to sit in the bathtub and frown.

I was so preoccupied trying to survive the night that I almost forgot about the awards ceremony. Sister Roberta wobbled up the microphone and heavy-breathed like an obscene caller for two whole minutes before she could speak.

"Settle down, now. We are about to announce the winners of the Science Fair."

Mom came rushing up to me.

"Are you excited? I really think you have a chance at this, Noreen. Have you looked around? No originality here. Yours is something special."

"Shhh. I can't hear."

Desert sand filled my mouth as every drop of moisture flooded out of my palms. I wasn't afraid that I would lose; I was terrified that I would win. Sister Roberta wouldn't just call out my name if I won. She would announce the title of my project - Acne: Its Causes and Treatments. I could already hear the howling laughter that would echo throughout the auditorium.

I looked at Jane and Cassandra for comfort.

"Let's get out of here before this thing gets out of hand!" Jane advised, her face turning an even deeper shade of scarlet.

"No way! We deserve to win. And we'll look good doing it!" Cassandra argued, puckering her lips.

Before I had a chance to grab the girls and go, I heard it crackling over the microphone.

"And for the eighth grade, third place goes to Noreen Heslin for Acne: Its Causes and Treatments."

Applause boomed around me but I heard nothing but the echo of my heart pounding in my ears. Mom beamed with pride. Jane frowned doubtfully while Cassandra exuded triumph. My jelly legs carried me to the microphone, fearing the worst. Once there, would I be pelted with tubes of Clearasil? Was a pail of Zit-B-Gone waiting to be dumped on my head?

Sister Roberta pumped my hand in her panda paw before handing me my third place ribbon.

"Excellent work, Noreen. I'm very proud."

"Thank you, Sister," I muttered, anticipating a flurry of insults from the crowd. But none came. I looked out to see parents and teachers and yes, even kids, cheering for me. Relief flooded over me and I allowed my muscles to relax. I marched back to Mom, proudly displaying my ribbon. I realized I still looked like Jane, but I was starting to feel more like Cassandra.

Sara came in second, and as usual, Vin came in first. I think Sara cured cancer and Vin built a nuclear reactor. They both congratulated me after the ceremony, and Mom took a picture of the three of us donning our ribbons. It was the first time in weeks that I didn't shy away from the flash of a camera.

Mom helped me carry my project home. I cradled Jane and Cassandra in my arms, and we three enjoyed the cold night breeze on our faces. Even Jane seemed to be smiling.

"That wasn't as bad as I thought it would be," Jane admitted.

"I think it went well," I agreed.

"Don't worry, Noreen. You'll be looking like me in no time," Cassandra assured me.

The Accutane was coursing through my veins, eradicating the acne, zit by stubborn zit. I imagined the photo shoot for my "after" picture in the brochure. I would borrow Cassandra's ruby hairpin, and I might even experiment with her passion fruit lipstick. The photographer would be so taken with my radiant beauty he would forget to take the cap off the camera lens. The doctors would look on approvingly, patting each other on the back. The pictures would prove so alluring, they would make their way to Seventeen Magazine, where I would be featured in the Spring Fling layout, wearing a cute white tennis outfit and lobbing a ball over the net. I would become the next teen sensation.

"Of course you will," Cassandra purred. "You'll be gorgeous."

"Maybe we shouldn't put the cart before the horse," plain Jane warned.

For once, I let Cassandra's voice trump Jane's skepticism. After all, I was not publicly stoned at the Science Fair. I had even placed third, receiving congratulations from everyone. I had survived the worst of the side effects, and my skin was finally clearing up. What could possibly go wrong?

Continue reading...

weirdness

When I started this blog almost a year ago, I wasn't quite sure what I wanted to do with it. I knew I had all of these stories, and I just wanted to get them down and figure out what, if anything, to do with them later. In the fall, I took a class called Autobiography Into Art. That class helped me shape my stories and figure out what to do with them.

I began writing a series of stories, starting with Zithead, that described my childhood as, well, a zithead. Other stories came after that first. Stories about the different doctors and treatments I tried, about how I was treated and how I reacted. I am now about a quarter of the way through with what I hope to be a memoir entitled "Zithead". And now, I am stuck.

Since I have started writing the zithead stories, some very strange things have been happening. First, my skin has started breaking out worse than it has in years. At 34, that's not such a great feeling, but it probably isn't as bad as being 13 with acne. In some respects, these outbreaks have been helpful, reminding what it felt like all of those years ago.

Maybe worse than my skin issue is the fact that I have been harboring two very unwelcome house guests over the past few months - depression and anxiety. Don't act surprised. If you have been reading any of these stories, I think it follows naturally that I would have some psychic, as well as physical, scars from my childhood. I have been both ashamed and embarrassed to write about this part of my life. But then I started reading over some of my previous blog stories. I have written about carrying my own poo down a flight of stairs (see The Floater). I have revealed how I let a boy feel me up in a pool and then lied about it (see How Second Base Led to my First Boyfriend). I rigged a contest to win a camera, alienating my first crush before I even had a chance to make him fall in love with me (see The Contest). So talking about a couple of little things like anxiety and depression should be no shame. After all, there are plentiful commercials detailing how my little sorrows are alienating my cat and destroying my marriage, so surely these topics are fit for blog discussion.

I guess it's only logical that writing about these old episodes would stir up some emotional sludge. So I am in the process of draining the mental pool and giving it all a good cleaning. I started a new story, weeks ago, and I am trying hard to get back on track. Who knows? Maybe this blog entry will someday appear as the epilogue to "Zithead". Stay tuned!

Continue reading...

sister zithead

The floor shook beneath us. Pencils rolled off of desks. The American flag trembled above the blackboard. Sister Mary squeezed the chalk in her palm until it cracked. A collective gasp rippled through the classroom as we all held our breath. The door creaked open, and Sister Roberta filled the doorway.

Sister Roberta was the principal. She was feared by students, teachers and parents alike. Bigger than all of the fathers in the entire school, her bulk sucked the air out of every room. She had no cheeks or chin, just jiggly jowls. Her breath was hot and ragged, and the sides of her face puffed out like the gills of a fish out of water. Deep lines were etched into the fat around her mouth, giving her face the look of a ventriloquist's dummy. Square glasses slipped down her nose from the constant sweat that clung to her like skin. The white collar of her habit was no match for the fat exploding out of her neck. She rolled her sleeves up to the elbows, and the fabric sliced into her skin. A tiny gold watch was smothered by chubby rolls on her wrist.

Sister Roberta spent her days trolling the halls and checking in on classrooms. Sometimes, she would call on a student to stand and recite, alphabetically, all of the prepositional phrases. On other occasions, she would stand at the back of the classroom and breathe heavily, making her oppressive presence known to tense students and stuttering teachers. The only point that both students and teachers agreed upon was the unnerving effect of Sister Roberta's glare.

"Good morning, Sister Roberta. God bless you." My entire eighth-grade class stood and saluted the principal as she darkened the doorway. I remained stuck to my seat, hot tears coursing down my cheeks. Her eyes pierced through me in an instant.

"Ms. Heslin. Come with me, please." Sister Roberta demanded, poking her sausage finger in my direction. I rose reluctantly, my body wracked with sobs, snot flowing freely towards my upper lip. It was the kind of hysterics that produces hiccups, and mine ensued in short order. The entire class watched as I sniffled and shuffled towards Sister Roberta.

Once outside the classroom, Sister Roberta wrapped her hand around the back of my neck and led me to the nurse's office. I felt like a helpless kitten about to be tossed in a sack and drowned in a river. Sister Roberta breathed heavily on the back of my neck like a bull. I wondered how many times I would have to write "I will not cry in school" on the blackboard as punishment for my outburst.

Once inside the empty nurse's office, Sister Roberta shut the door behind us. I sat down on the cot reserved for kids with stomach aches and fevers, as she squeezed into the nurse's chair opposite me. She handed me a box of tissues, waiting patiently as I wiped my eyes and blew my nose, hoping for the sobs to subside.

"Now. What is this all about?"

I didn't know where to begin. This was the first time I had cried in front of anyone since starting Accutane, and I was ashamed and angry about my outburst. No matter what anyone had said to me, I hadn't given them the satisfaction of seeing their words pierce my skin. But lately, I had crying jags for just about any reason: a Hallmark commercial, a kitten on the corner, a boy skinning his knee in the park. This time, it had been Thomas.

"It was nothing, Sister. I'm just having a bad day."

"Well, it seems like something to me. "Nothing" does not produce the hysterics I just witnessed."

"It was stupid...."

"I'll be the judge of that."

I hesitated. Did I want to be a rat? Being called a rat could be more devastating than being a zithead. But, lying to Sister Roberta could be lethal. She had this nun's sixth sense that she claimed had been divined straight from God Himself. To Sister Roberta, there was no greater sin than dishonesty. I balked between my choices - social death or slaughter by Sister. Picturing myself perishing in a sister's strangle, I chose the former.

"Thomas called me a name."

"And what name was that?"

"He called me a dirty pizza face." As I buried my face in a tissue, the sobs started fresh again.

It wasn't just the name that had hurt me. It was Thomas. Throughout the years, he had always been my protector. Whenever we played football, he would beat away the other boys trying to tackle me so he could gently knock me down himself. He always walked me home, and offered me his jacket when I was cold. I didn't want him to be my boyfriend, but I also didn't mind the attention he showed me, or the occasional jolt of electricity that shot up my arm when he tried to hold my hand. Thomas was a safe way to practice flirting, because I knew he would never want to hurt me. Until today.

"Why do you think he did that?" Sister Roberta wondered.

"Because I told him to stop poking me in the back with his pencil."

"You know, Noreen. I have often thought that Thomas might have somewhat of a crush on you."

"I know."

I didn't know Thomas had a crush on me, I had felt it. On my thigh. The year before, in seventh grade, Thomas and I were slow-dancing in Ashley's house at her thirteenth birthday party. Her parents stayed upstairs all night, while we danced and flirted and (some of us) got felt up. Thomas held me uncomfortably close, and I felt something jabbing me in the thigh.

"Thomas, can you move your keys? They're digging into me." I explained. Thomas pulled me closer and breathed onto my neck.

"Those aren't my keys." Confused, I pulled back from him and glanced down at his crotch. It was the first bulge I had ever seen, let alone felt up against my body.

"Ewww! Gross!" I squealed and pushed away from him, running into the safety of a circle of girls. They consoled me throughout the night, dutifully calling Thomas a pig. But, their eyes lit up as they asked questions about "it".

"Was it hard?"

"Was it big?"

"Did you touch it?"

"Is it shaped like a rocket?"

"Would you let him do it again?"

I would slow dance with Thomas again in other darkened living rooms while listening to homemade mix tapes of slow songs. His hands would cascade down my back past my boy-straight hips to the no-man's land of my flat butt. I would dutifully reposition his hands to the safety of my waist time and again, doing a chastity dance. I could have refused to dance with him, but I didn't. I did, however, remember Sister Mary's advice for dancing with a boy, and I left room between us for the Holy Spirit.

"Sometimes," Sister Roberta offered, "Boys don't know how to show girls that they like them. They're not mature enough to say the words, so instead, they tease and taunt."

"I know that too, Sister." I breathed out in exasperation. Did she think acne had made me a complete social moron? It was as if she subtracted ten IQ points per pimple, speaking slowly so I didn't miss her meaning.

"You know what I bet would shut him up?" Sister Roberta's lips quivered with menace. I waited for her advice. "Call him fat!"

"What?" My eyes shot open as this Bride of Christ recommended that I intentionally hurt someone's feelings.

"Sure. Why not? Call him a porker, a chubber, a whale. Whatever word works for you. Give him a dose of his own medicine." The mud-colored mole sitting on Sister Roberta's left eyelid shook with excitement. She looked entirely pleased with herself.

"I couldn't do that." I responded, still shocked by her suggestion.

"Why not? Don't you think Thomas is fat?"

Oh, this must be a trick! These nuns could be slick. This must be some sort of morality test. To see if I would do unto others as had been done to me, or if I would turn the other cheek. I quickly did an equation in my head. If I admitted that Thomas was fat, but Thomas was much thinner than Sister Roberta, then wouldn't I be calling Sister Roberta fat by extension? The only safe way out of this one was to use a diversion tactic.

"I can't be mean to Thomas because of his brother."

Sister Roberta sucked in her breath and looked surprised. I could tell that she didn't know what to say, and that sent a shock of excitement through me. I had left a nun, the nun, speechless!
Thomas' little brother Christopher had died of leukemia the year before, when Thomas and I were in seventh grade. He had been sick since he was two, and he died right before his eighth birthday. We had all grown up together, with Thomas and I watching after his brother Christopher, my brother Chris and my sister Erin. Christopher had lost all of his hair from the chemo, but it never seemed to bother him. He'd walk right up to you and say, "Rub my head for good luck." It was easy to forget he was sick.

Our class had fundraisers for Christopher's medical expenses. We held raffles and car washes, until everyone in town knew Christopher's face and asked how they could help. One afternoon while we were making flyers for an upcoming fundraiser, Thomas walked into class after visiting his brother in the hospital.

"Hi, Thomas. How's Christopher today?" Miss Andrews asked.

"He's dead," Thomas answered bluntly. The class was quiet and waited to see what would happen next. Thomas walked out of the classroom and didn't come back until a week after the funeral.

For weeks after Christopher died, Thomas walked around town alone, a large boom box planted on his shoulder blasting music. He didn't speak to anyone; he just nodded his head and kept on walking.

Just thinking about Thomas and Christopher got me crying all over again.

"Noreen, Thomas is very lucky to have a friend like you." Sister Roberta said as she handed me more tissues. I blew my nose and nodded.

"Your mother explained the medication to me. You won't always look like this."

"It's not just that," I admitted. "Everyone thinks I'm dirty, like I don't wash my face or something."

"Let me ask you a question. Do you think I'm fat because of what I eat?"

Another trick question! What kind of moral Olympics was this woman putting me through?
Sister Mary had once asked me to get her sweater from the convent. I was both honored and terrified. Very few students were ever allowed into the convent, which was attached to the school by a back staircase. I opened the heavy door and stared into the darkened convent. It smelled like bleach and something sweet. Flicking on the hallway light, I looked around at the cold, gray walls and floor, all made of cement. There was nothing to suggest the convent was a home. Rather, it looked more like a storage closet or a crypt. I shuddered as I made my way inside.
My eyes widened to the size of flapjacks at what I encountered in the first room - the laundry room. There, weighing down a clothesline strung across the room, were three pairs of underwear, each large enough to cover the back end of a Volkswagen bug. Either these belonged to Sister Roberta, or the nuns were harboring a large circus animal somewhere in the confines of the convent.

Even more startling, however, were the three bras (nuns wore bras!) hanging next to the underwear. Each bra cup could easily cradle a small child. I wondered who did all of the laundry, and I assumed it to be Sister Mary. Sister Mary was as thin and meek as Sister Roberta was large and domineering. I could just picture Sister Roberta making Sister Mary write a thousand-word essay on the virtues of using bleach when washing underclothing.

I found Sister Mary's sweater on a hanger, but couldn't stop myself from peeking into the next room. Obviously, the sweet smell had originated here, in the kitchen. It looked like a Hostess cupcake factory. There were boxes of Ding Dongs and Ho Hos, Twinkies and Sno Balls. A small index card was taped to each box. Tiny block letters were printed on each card. I crept closer to read the writing: "Property of Sister Roberta. Do not touch. The Lord is watching."

Unable to stop myself, I opened the refrigerator and peered inside. Gallons of Pepsi and Dr. Pepper lined the shelves. Take-out containers from Number 1 Kitchen, Benny's Pizza and Chicken Galore peeked out from behind the soda. I couldn't believe my eyes. These nuns lived like college students. I wondered if our tuition paid for their junk food habits.

"Well?" Sister Roberta waited for my response.

"Sister?" I couldn't remember the answer I was supposed to give.

"Do you think I'm fat because of what I eat?"

I shrugged and widened my eyes, noncommittal in my response.

"No. I have a glandular problem. I actually eat very light and healthfully."

"Ohhh!" I said. I couldn't believe all of the things I was learning. Nuns wore bras that could carry bowling balls. They encouraged children to make fun of their peers. And they lied!

"There. Now I've just dispelled a misconception about people who struggle with weight. Maybe you can dispel the idea that people with acne are...."

"Dirty?" I offered.

"Unhygienic, yes."

"How do I do that?" I pictured myself wearing a sandwich board as I walked the halls. On it, in bright red letters, I would have written: "I'm not dirty! I'm a zithead and I don't know why. But one thing's for sure - I am not dirty!"

"Well, you're a smart girl. I'm sure you'll figure something out."

"Sure."

"I think you're ready to return to class. Go splash some water on your face while I explain your outburst to Sister Mary."

"Yes, Sister Roberta."

When I returned to class, it was clear that Sister Roberta had given Thomas a talking to. He looked up as I walked in and then glued his eyes to his desk. I sat down in front of him and tried to pretend the entire class wasn't staring at me.

"Psst." Thomas gently tapped me on the shoulder and passed me a note. I slipped the note into my lap and unfolded the paper. He had drawn a picture of the two of us smiling and playing catch. Above it, Thomas had written "Sorry!!!" I half-turned towards him and sort of smiled, to let him know it was okay. I didn't know if it was okay, but I just wanted to forget about it. I was too busy thinking of a way to let everyone know that what was happening to me wasn't my fault.

"Hello?" Mom answered the phone while I was doing homework later that night.

"Oh, hello Sister Roberta." Mom's voice went rigid and fear showed on her face. She stubbed out her cigarette guiltily. I slammed my book shut and stared, trying to divine what Sister Roberta was saying on the other end.

Mom gave me no hints as to what was being said. She issued several "umm hmms" and "I sees", but nothing concrete. After a minute, Mom clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. I tugged at her shirt, mouthing: "What's going on?" Mom shrugged me away and held the phone protectively to her ear.

"Really? You think so? We'll have to discuss that." Mom's chin quivered from the effort of containing a laugh. My bones ached with anticipation. It was never a light matter for the principal, let alone Sister Roberta, to call a parent. The veins on Mom's forehead were not popping with rage, so I figured I wasn't in that much trouble. But what could Sister Roberta say that would make anyone laugh? Maybe she was explaining her glandular problem, and Mom found it as unlikely as I knew it to be.

"Thank you, Sister. Have a good night." Mom hung up the phone and stared at me. I sat back in my seat, waiting for the bomb to drop.

"Sister Roberta told me what happened with Thomas today," she said sympathetically.

"Oh," I breathed out heavily, relieved.

"She was very proud of the way you handled yourself."

"Okay." I didn't know where this was going, but I could see Mom was saving the best for last.

"She said you taught her a lesson about compassion, and forgiveness. And she thinks...." Mom snorted and laughed, covering her face. I was getting annoyed that it was taking her so long to finish the story.

"What? Mom, just say it!"

"Well, Sister Noreen, she thinks you would be an excellent addition to the convent. She wants to know if you'd ever consider becoming a nun!"

"Jesus Christ!" I shouted, picturing a life living in that concrete hell, washing Sister's Roberta's elephant-sized drawers and sneaking bites of her Ho Hos.

"Noreen! Watch your language." Mom admonished. She then continued to convulse with laughter as I picked up my books and stalked off to my bedroom.

I was too distracted to finish my homework, thoughts rattling around my brain like a pocketful of loose change. What if I did pledge my undying devotion to the church? Could I somehow strike a deal with the Big Guy to clear my complexion? I could vow to stay a virgin until marriage. In my current condition, it didn't seem like such a stretch to say say I would remain untouched for the next fifty years anyway. I could give up something really important for lent, like Burger King or television, and not just some random candy that I only ate once a month anyway. I could go to confession weekly and say the rosary daily. I could shake hands with every person within reach during mass when we said "Peace be with you". (This was my least favorite part of mass. I didn't like shaking strangers' hands after watching them pick their noses or scratch the insides of their ears. I usually faked a sneezing fit seconds before, so as to excuse myself from hand-shaking. It was, after all, ungodly to spread germs.) I would even clasp the hand of the old man with shingles, who was always peeling off bits of skin in long scaly strips.
Then, another line of thinking barged into my brain like a freight train. Was I being recruited to the convent because of my poor complexion? All of the nuns I knew did seem to have some sort of defect. Sister Mary had a man's face, with a robust nose and chin whiskers that she was fond of stroking. Sister Agnes, the librarian, had fingers that were twisted like the knotted roots of a gnarled tree. Sister Theresa, whose place in the school no one was certain of, looked very much like a garden gnome. She was as tall as the third graders and had elfin ears and a pointy chin that jutted sharply away from her face. Was I, too, unfit for society? Did Sister Roberta become a nun because she was obese, or did she become obese because she was a nun? What came first - the habit or the Ho Hos?

I then thought of ways to make everyone understand what was happening to me, and why. I could kidnap one of my doctors and bring him to school to explain the situation. I could hire a plane to sky write it over town. Or, I could ask Sister Roberta to make the entire class write on the board a thousand times: Noreen is not dirty. She has acne, which may be caused by a hormonal imbalance, clogged pores, or an infection within her skin.

I had already been on the medication for several weeks, and still no improvement. If things didn't start to change soon, I would have no choice but to become Sister Zithead.

Continue reading...

you

The early summer sun is beating down on you. Boys and girls, your friends, are running and playing catch, laughing and chasing each other. You are riding your new bike in circles around them. You got it for your ninth birthday last week. It is blue and shiny. There is a name plate on the back that reads "Robert". You feel free on that bike. It is your first. Before, you had to ride on the pegs of other kids' bikes. You learned to ride on Billy's bike three years ago. Now you don't need to beg rides off of anyone else. For the first time, you can offer anyone you like a ride on your bike.

You chant with the other kids: "No more homework, no more books. No more teachers' dirty looks". It is the first day of summer vacation. The days are stretched ahead of you like a long, cool drink of lemonade. You wonder how you will have time to do all that you want to do. There will be bike riding, of course. Wiffle ball tournaments against the kids from the next block. You're not very good at bat, but you do throw a mean slider. Games of Manhunt and Freeze Tag. Firecrackers to set off at night. Exploring the neighborhoods further away from your safe street, without getting caught by your mother. Catching fireflies and putting them in girls' ponytails, waiting for them to screech and swat at you. A lifetime to live in just a few short months.
You don't know that none of that is going to happen. You don't know how everything is going to change. That you will never be the same. You are riding your new bike, in the sun, surrounded by your friends. And you are happy.

Continue reading...

possible side effects

"She has AIDS!"

"Don't touch her. She's contagious!"

"Disgusting!"

I heard the rushing rocks before I felt them pelt my back. It didn't hurt. Not really. It was just a dull thud near my shoulder blade. Already, though, I could feel the wetness of the blood leaking out of the pimple that had burst.

I turned and stared blankly. Piss Pants Rick, Dick Ear, and Petey Boy had their hands poised with more rocks waiting. I didn't go to school with these boys, but I had played baseball with them. Their fathers called me "honey". Their mothers congregated on the same park bench as mine, smoking and gossiping. I knew their secrets and shames. Everyone did.

Piss Pants Rick earned his nickname on a Boy Scout camping trip. Too afraid to leave his tent in the ink blank night, he refused to make his way to the outhouse and opted to piss in his pants. The act would have been less shameful had he not repeated it three nights in a row.

A fleshy bit of skin protruding near his ear was responsible for Dick Ear's name. He was constantly tugging on it, and his face would go all dreamy and far away.

"Hey, Dick Ear," his friends would taunt. "Dreaming about sticking that thing in your mother?"

Dick Ear would pull his reluctant fingers away from his ear and slip his thumb into his mouth.
Petey Boy was named after a dog. His father was a slow and nervous man. When he found out that his large and oppressive wife was expecting a baby, he had to go to the nervous hospital for some "rest". The only way his wife could convince him to come home, as the story goes, was to allow him to name the baby. Petey Boy was his much-loved childhood Schnauzer. We couldn't help but bark and whistle whenever Petey Boy and his father played fetch. I mean, catch.

I popped my watermelon gum noisily between my teeth, working it into a pulpy mass and poking my tongue through its center. My mouth was dry sand paper. The juice of the gum eased it somewhat. Puffing out my cheeks, I blew a bubble as I walked slowly towards the boys. The bubble burst, and I picked the sticky bits of gum off of my lips. My red-rimmed eyes burned and itched, blinking back the constant throb of a headache that had taken up permanent residence behind my eyeballs.

I stopped just a few feet short of the boys. They were poised nervously, as if preparing to steal second base. I couldn't blame them really. I guess I did resemble the images of the scabby, shrunken men on television - the ones with AIDS. I wasn't sure what I looked like. I tried not to spy my image in the mirror. I didn't want to see what would be staring back at me.

"You guys are right. I do have the virus." It was an effort for me to speak. Each time I opened my mouth, my lips cracked and bled, splitting in the corners. I swallowed and tried not to lick my burning lips. The boys shifted and cackled nervously, looking uneasily at one another.

"Yeah, you got the virus. Like anyone would fuck you!" Piss Pants Rick stepped forward defiantly. Dick Ear and Petey Boy stepped closer, feeling more confident in his shadow.

"No. Nobody fucked me. Wanna know how else you can get it?"

I could almost see their brains racing to remember the brief lessons on sex and AIDS education. A panic flashed in their dim-witted eyes, as they wondered what they had missed while snoozing in the back of class.

I took the sticky gum out of my mouth and held it out to them, like an offering.

"The spit on my gum!" I hissed as I wound up my left arm and watched them race away from me.

High, feminine shrieks escaped from their fleeing forms as they tried to escape. But it was too late.

I focused my aim on the fat rolls protruding from the back of Piss Pants' sweatshirt. I missed my mark, and the spit-soaked wad of gum landed smack in the tangle of his dirty curls. The gum hit him like a shot from a rifle, and he landed face down with a thud in the grass. He writhed and screamed, swatting at the back of his head.

"Guys! Help! Get this thing offa me. Come back!" Piss Pants shrieked. Dick Ear and Petey Boy paused briefly to look at their fallen friend, but I was hot on their heels. They ran for their very lives as I chased them, gathering up as much spit as I could spare. Unfortunately, Accutane had drained me of most of the moisture in my entire body, and I was dry after two measly shots. Still, I was proud of my efforts.

The real payoff came the following day. I glimpsed Piss Pants, his hair sheered close to the scalp. He had the lumpiest, most misshapen head I had ever seen. I almost felt bad for him.

"What the hell happened to you?" Kids shouted. "You look like a shaved ass hole!"

Piss Pants Rick looked over and saw the serene smile on my face. I nodded and bowed in his direction. His eyes narrowed and his hand shot protectively to the back of his bald head. His lips pursed with want, insults tickling his tongue waiting to be hurled at me like hand grenades. But he kept his mouth shut and hurried away.

Kids weren't the only ones who were cruel. I couldn't go around throwing my gum and spitting at everyone who called me a name, so I devised other ways to deal with the daily insults and assaults.

I flipped through beauty magazines in the salon. Mom was treating me to a new 'do to help me feel better about my appearance. As I sat and waited for my turn, something tickled my bare arm and nuzzled against me. I jumped in my seat at what I thought was a cougar cozying up to me. Dead black eyes glared at me as razor sharp fangs poked out of a tiny but ferocious muzzle. Claws hung at the end of little legs. A furry body lay lifeless on the shoulder of the middle-aged woman who had sat down beside me. An identical little creature lay draped over her other shoulder. I scooted away from the snarling fangs of these animals, sneaking peaks to make sure they wouldn't come to life and take a nip at me.

I felt more than one set of eyes piercing my skin, and slowly turned in the direction of the coat. The furry creatures, and their owner, were glaring at me. The woman's scowl was more menacing than that of her creature companions. I blushed guiltily and shrugged, assuming she had spied me staring at her roadkill coat.

Don't you ever wash your face? You look absolutely filthy!"

The busy chit-chat of the salon and the hum of the hair dryers screeched to a halt. Scissors clipped shut. Aqua Net hung suspended in the air. All eyes were on us.

Before I could open my mouth and eek out a response, a deep growling erupted from within the woman's coat. It began as a dull rumble, like distant thunder, but quickly escalated into a guttural grumbling, full of phlegm and menace. I pulled away cautiously. The woman was frozen in fear, her eyes piercing pools of terror. Her coat began to shift and move about her. The limp creatures on her coat suddenly came to life, spit flying out of their ferocious mouths, salivating for a piece of flesh.

Their claws dug into the make-up caked on her aging face, searing away the flesh in shreds. Pulpy strips of cheek hung like fillets. One creature feasted on her ear, while the other tore away at her deep peach lips. Then, they began fighting over her pointy nose. Within seconds, it was nothing more than a cavernous hole. She screeched and screamed and swung at the greedy creatures, while we watched in horror as her face was torn away.

The woman flopped onto the cold tile floor and the creatures pecked lazily at what was left of her face. The bell hanging above the front door dinged as a woman entered the salon. The creatures, still attached to the coat, took off running out of the salon, dragging the half-eaten woman behind them. The salon remained still for a moment longer, and then everyone snapped back into action. Blow dryers clicked back to life. Scissors clipped. Gossip resumed. And I continued to search for the perfect layered look.

"What the hell is your problem, lady?" Annie, the salon owner, was sticking her scissors into the woman's face.

"Excuse me?" she responded indignantly.

"Can't ya see she's just a kid? Get the hell outta here before I stick my scissors up your ass!'

Annie, whose own face was deeply pitted with acne scars, looked like a woman possessed. She poked her scissors so close that she could have trimmed the woman's nose hair. Annie was convincing enough that the woman rushed out of the salon without a word.

"Don't you pay her any mind, honey," Annie gripped my chin firmly and planted a lipstick kiss on my cheek. She was the first person to touch my face in months.

An hour later, I walked out of the salon with Joan Jett's rocking hair, and a little bit of her attitude. Annie had invited me back for a free facial, and promised me she would take care of business if she ever saw that woman out on the streets. I believed her.

Mom didn't much like my haircut, but that was forgotten once I told her what had happened. She lit up another Salem Light, blind to the one she already had burning in the ashtray.

"She's lucky I wasn't there. What the hell's wrong with people? Son of a...." She trailed off before spewing forth the slew of curse words she would not say in front of us.

"It's okay, Mom." I assured. "Her face was eaten off by her fur coat." Mom looked at me, shook her head and sucked on her cigarette.

I was standing at the corner, waiting for the light to change. A little girl next to me was nibbling on a chocolate bar, holding her mother's hand. I was starving. I hadn't eaten a solid meal in days. My lips had become so blistered and swollen that I could no longer chew. My mother had to puree all of my meals, and I sucked them up through a straw. The doctors assured us that this was normal, and that the side effects would soon lessen and my skin would heal. I held on to their words, and to the vision of myself at the end of treatment, eating a four-course meal with clear skin.

I peeked down at the little girl and smiled. She grinned back and hid behind her mother's leg. We played peek-a-boo and giggled at each other. The mother smiled down at her daughter's playfulness, but her jaw went rigid when she got a glimpse of my complexion. I recognized the look of disgust in her eyes and waited. She jerked the chocolate bar out of her daughter's hand and pointed an angry finger at me.

"See? This is what you'll look like if you keep eating chocolate. You wanna look like her?" The mother glared accusingly at me and threw the chocolate bar in the garbage. The mother stepped off the curb and walked into the street, leaving her daughter behind. She stopped and turned towards us.

"Well, come on! What're you waiting for?"

Before the little girl could step off of the curb, a bus came screeching down the street and knocked the mother out of her socks. The bus kept on going, with the mother splayed across the windshield like a squashed bug. The girl and I looked at each other, shrugged, and giggled. We took a seat on the curb, and the girl produced two chocolate bars from her pocket. We ate slowly and gratefully, as the mother's socks blew away in the wind.

I didn't tell Mom about that one. I was afraid she'd patrol the streets with a baseball bat, and bludgeon to death the first mother she saw who fit the description.

I often woke up with my pillow and sheet smeared with blood. I never knew if I had gotten a nose bleed in the middle of the night, or an infected pimple had burst. It was harder to leave the house on days like these.

In fact, I didn't leave the house on those days. But someone else did. Some days, it was Laverne, or Shirley. Men seemed to respond to Shirley more, with her sweet and feminine ways. On my Shirley days, I walked softly and gracefully. I couldn't fully get behind Shirley, though. I just couldn't see myself being that attached to a stuffed cat. Laverne, who boldly sewed her signature "L" on each sweater, seemed more my speed. On my Laverne days, my smile was sly and my gait was sturdy. As strangers' stares penetrated my skin, I sang Lavarne and Shirley's down-in-the-dumps pick-me-up song: "Woops there goes another rubber tree plant." I didn't really know what it meant, but it always seemed to work for them.

Sometimes, I called on Laura Ingalls to get me through the day. I thought of her life on the prairie, and realized she had it much tougher than I did. At least we had indoor plumbing. When kids were calling me names and my first reaction was to lash out, I thought of Pa and the always tender advice he gave Half-Pint. I imagined myself hitching up the team alongside Pa, and telling him of the mean things that had been said to me that day. With a glint in his eye and his homemade pipe stuck firmly between his teeth, Pa would say: "You'll grow out of it, Half-Pint. And you'll be the prettiest girl on the prairie." And just like that, I could breeze through the names being hurled at me with relative ease. Of course, I also knew that Half-Pint could beat up almost any boy on the playground.

My favorite, however, was Jo from the Facts of Life. Jo was really prettier than all of the other girls, but hid it under her pigtail and motorcycle helmet. I relied on her more often than the others. Affecting my best Bronx accent, I would scrunch my face up into a scowl and display my fist to anyone whose stare lingered too long.

"Whaddya lookin' at?" I would ask icily. "Ya wanna knuckle sandwich?" Sometimes people would laugh, but more often than not, they would look away.

"Yeah, that's what I thought!" I would yell after them.

On the toughest days, I would picture myself jumping onto Jo's motorcycle and riding clear out of town, wielding a tire iron and smashing anyone who got in my way.

Sometimes, though, assuming Jo's identity got me into trouble. It was during a spelling test. As I was waiting for Sister Alice to pronounce the next word, a fat drop of blood like a rain drop splattered across my loose leaf paper. I pinched my nose and tilted my head back, raising my clean hand in the air.

"Sister Alice," I called out, "I need to use the bathroom." Dark droplets of blood plopped on my white uniform shirt.

"Lord God above, Noreen. What have you done?" Sister Alice asked suspiciously. We had recently had a visit from an ex-drug addict who warned us against the perils of drug use. He demonstrated the effects his cocaine habit had had on his nose by stuffing a tissue up one nostril and retrieving it from the other nostril. The boys in my class thought he was cool. The girls thought he was cute.

"Sorry, Sister. I guess I partied a little too hard this weekend." The class hooped and applauded in approval. What did she think I had been doing? Picking my nose with a pitchfork.

"To the nurse's office. Now. I'll deal with you later." Sister Alice promised.

That night, Sister Alice followed through with her threat and called my mother. Mom's face turned scarlet as she nodded her head.

"Yes, Sister. I'm sorry, Sister. It will never happen again, Sister. It's the medication. She's just not herself right now." I bit my nails nervously, wondering what my punishment would be.

Mom slammed the phone down and stared hard at me.

"She wants to know if you have a drug problem or if you're trying to get suspended with that smart mouth."

"Mom, I'm sorry. But what did she think I had been doing? Picking my nose with a pitchfork?" Mom sighed heavily and shook her head. I waited for my punishment, but it didn't come. Instead, Mom opened up the freezer and handed me a cherry ice pop, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

Cherry ice pops had become my salvation, easing the ache of my lips and the dryness of my mouth. As I sucked greedily on the frozen treat, my breath froze at what I saw staring at me in the reflection of the toaster. My features were distorted, as if I were looking into a funhouse mirror. I was puffy and swollen, so raw and red that I could understand the disgust in strangers' stares. I walked into the bathroom and shut the door behind me, standing in the darkness.
Closing my eyes, I flipped the switch and willed myself to look. I knew it was bad, but I had no idea what I had actually become.

The acne I had had before Accutane was almost cute in comparison to what was happening now. The pimples on my face, neck, back and chest were competing for the title of "Miss Hideous America". Godzilla lurked beneath the surface of every inflamed boil, waiting to burst through and spew hot lava. Blood and pus pooled beneath the pimples, turning my skin blue-black in some spots. Traces of dried blood dotted my face like fault lines on a map. Crunchy scabs encrusted my mouth. I was completely unrecognizable.

I snapped the light off and stood in the dark before the mirror. My mind raced, trying to find the thought that would make my appearance more bearable. I would get better. The doctors had said so. But when? And what if they were wrong?

I went to my go-to guys for support, but this time they had nothing for me. Laverne and Shirley were slouched at the kitchen table, crying into tall glasses of milk and pepsi, Noxzema slathered across their faces. Pa had no words of wisdom. He blew out the candle and left me sitting alone in the dark barn to figure it out for myself. Jo, always ready with a stiff upper lip and a wisecrack, was stranded on the side of the road, covered in grease, trying to fix her broken down motorcycle in the rain. I was on my own.

Snapping the bathroom light back on, I stared hard at my reflection until it all became a blur. And then, a new fictional character emerged. This character bore a greater resemblance to my current physical state. I couldn't believe I hadn't realized it before. I was becoming - The Fly!

I was strangely comforted by this fact. I ignored the obvious worries, such as my ears falling off or having to puke on my cheeseburger before I could eat it. Instead, I remembered Jeff Goldblum's character being exhilarated at the change that was taking place inside of him. I too was undergoing some sort of transformation. My old face was literally falling off, and someone new was waiting underneath. I didn't know who or what it was.

The doctors said this would happen. I would get much worse before I got better. It was part of the process. Even Jeff Goldblum, with his collection of rotted-off body parts in the medicine cabinet, believed he was falling apart to become something better, stronger. I looked at my reflection. Jeff Goldblum stared down at me from his perch on the ceiling. He nodded at me confidently. If he believed it, then so could I.

Continue reading...