Puppies, Pills, and Pretty Necks

I hate my neck.

I know people say hate is too strong a word, but as the owner of this neck, I don’t feel hate is strong enough. 

You may scoff and think, big deal, it’s just a neck. It’s not even a major body part (unless you’re a giraffe).

However, you are probably a Good Neck Person (GNP).

Yeah, I’ve seen you with your smooth neck, looking pristine and ageless, even in bad lighting. You don’t understand.

My neck starting aging when I was in my late 40’s and by my early 50’s, I could barely look at the weathered road map that was my neck. Bad genetics and too much sun had taken their toll.

If only I had a new neck! Like in that Christmas song, All I want for Christmas is my Two Front Teeth. Substitute two front teeth with one good neck. And it doesn’t even have to be for Christmas. Any holiday, any season, the third Tuesday in March. 

Clearly, I had neck envy.

When I met someone with a good neck, all I could do was gaze in awe. 

Me: Looks like you’ve stayed out of the sun. 

GNP: Excuse me.

Me: I bet your parents have good necks too.

I move in for a closer look. The GNP covers her neck with her hands.

Me: I don’t want to strangle you. I’m just admiring your neck. Come back!

This behavior was getting me nowhere, (other than a restraining order). I decided it was time to make some changes. It was time for a new neck.

I first learned about the procedure through Debby, a receptionist at my dermatologist’s office. She too had gone through neck woes.

“It’s called a mini-neck lift,” she said, handing me her phone. “This is what my neck used to look like.”

Ugh! I had seen that neck before.

I looked at her now.

Sold!

I made an appointment with her doctor, and three weeks later, I arrived for the consultation.

 “So, what brings you in?” the doctor asked.

“One new neck, please,” I said, like I was placing an order at the drive-thru.

I’ll have the 30-year-old neck, with a side of collagen.

“Let me take a look,” he said, turning on an enormous light. 

After a few minutes, he turned off the light and said, “I think you’ll make an excellent candidate.”

What a nice way to say, “Your neck is gross, but I’m going to fix it.”

Then he handed me an album. “This will give you an idea of what your neck will look like after.” 

I flipped through the pages of the before and after neck pictures. It was like a fairy tale. Once there was an old weathered neck who was sad, until one day, she met a board certified doctor who made her pretty, and she lived wrinkle-free ever after.

What a shallow, yet beautiful story.

Meanwhile, as I was fantasizing about joining this gorgeous neck hall of fame, the doctor was explaining the procedure.

Looking back, I should have paid attention.

I remembered nodding my head and answering some questions but mostly I was mesmerized by the pretty necks.

I booked the mini neck-lift for mid-December.

The months flew by and my neck and I were giddy with anticipation. I felt like a kid at Christmas, but better than a brand new bike, I was getting a brand new neck. Santa can’t do that.

The week before the procedure the nurse called with a few reminders. Since I didn’t pay attention the first time, it wasn’t so much reminders as it was new information.

“You’ll be taking Arnica tablets five days before the procedure to reduce bruising and swelling.”

There will be bruising and swelling?

“And it’s okay to have a light breakfast the morning of the procedure,” she added.

“But I thought I couldn’t eat because of the anesthesia?” I asked.

“There’s no anesthesia. You’ll be awake.”

WHAT?

“Vicodin will help with the pain.”

I didn’t order pain!

Suddenly the conversation at the consultation came back to me in hazy fragments. While I was mesmerized by the Pretty Neck Fairy Tale, words like “conscious,” “cutting,” and “incision” were apparently spoken.

At the time, my brain chose to repress those words and replace it with, Pretty Neck! Pretty Neck! Pretty Neck!

Good God, what had I gotten myself into?

For the next week, I kept myself busy and tried to imagine alternative ways they might do the procedure.

“Instead of a knife, I bet they use a rolling pin,” I told my husband. “They just roll the wrinkles away.”

He shook his head.

“Maybe there’s some special serum that only doctors have,” I said to my friend. “It’s not sold in stores or even on TV for three easy payments.”

“Maybe,” my friend said.

Then it hit me.

“Puppies!” I told my daughter. “Puppies ever so gently pull the skin into place while giving you kisses the entire time.”

“Okay, Mom.” She patted me on the shoulder.

The morning of the procedure my husband drove me to the doctor’s office and gave me a hug. “You’re going to be fine.”

Then a nurse led me back to the room and handed me two small pills and a cup of water. “This will help you relax.”

If you wanted me to relax, that water would have been wine.

I swallowed the pills.

Is it too soon to ask for seconds?

The nurse handed me a shower cap. 

“So you don’t get blood in your hair,” she said.

“More pills, please.”

“You’ll be fine.” She patted my arm. “The doctor will be in shortly.”

And the puppies? When will the puppies get here?

I frantically looked around the room, hoping to find a cage, a closet, a drawer, labeled “Puppies.”

Nothing!

The doctor came in a few minutes later. He reclined my chair back and explained what the procedure would entail.

And that’s why I didn’t pay attention the first time!

He patted my hand. (People sure pat me a lot. Do they think I’m a puppy?)

“Don’t worry, once we numb you up, you’re going to feel some tugging and pulling…”

LALALALALALALALA…

Good God, what had I gotten myself into?

Then it began; the numbing of the neck.

It wasn’t horrific, but it was no day at the beach. Unless, you were stung by a jellyfish, then it was kind of like a day at the beach. 

Somehow I survived the numbing, but I knew what was coming next.

When I felt the first slight tug, I whispered, “Easy there, Lassie.”

And for the next hour that’s how I got through it. I visualized puppies and puppies and more puppies. Also, I did a lot of Lamaze breathing, like I was having a newborn… neck.

Finally, Lassie tugged at my neck one final time, gently snipped the stitches with his puppy teeth and we were finished.

“You did it,” the doctor said.

The puppies did it!

The nurse took a cloth and gently wiped my ears and neck, then handed me a mirror.

I smiled.

Well done, puppies!

It took a few weeks to fully recover. Fortunately, the post procedure pain was manageable and once the stitches were out, my pretty neck and I could resume our normal lives.

“It looks great,” my friend said.

“Thanks.”

“For me, it’s not so much the neck, it’s my hands.” She held out her hands. “The veins, the wrinkles, the dark spots. Yuck!”

I looked at my middle-aged paws.

I’d been so obsessed with my neck I hadn’t even noticed my own hands of horrors.

“What can we do?” I asked.

“Well, there’s microdermabrasion, peels, filler injections, laser vein ablation…”

She went on for a while.

I stared at my hands, then walked over to the counter and picked up a piece of paper.

“Or…” I said.

I added one word to my Christmas list.

Gloves.