A NOSE JOB

There is that pretty little pert nose that is adorable, there is that long straight aristocratic nose that looks down on you. There is that big round nose that smells every scent a hundred miles away. There is that thin pointed nose that is proud of the face that belongs to it. There is a good nose, there is a bad nose. There is a poor nose, there is a rich nose.
What’s with the face anyway? Or should i say, what’s with the nose anyway?
I’ll tell you. I was born with a condition that is called a hare-lip cleft palate. In Tagalog, “bingot”, in the streets “ngo-ngo”. It sure ain’t a pretty sight. And to add insult to injury, speech is impaired. I had a twang. Not your old American twang, mine was a nasal-twang.Hah! Lucky me!!!

Growing up with such a facial deformity was not a breeze. I lived with the taunts, the odd-stares, the pitiful glares and the nasty humor that goes with it. Was I ashamed? Yes. But I was also furious-of the fates, of the pity and of the insensitivity. Nobody had the right. I thought to myself, I am a goddess in my own right.

I was in college when I first had my nose done. Rhinoplasty. There was this wax-like material placed in my nose. After the surgery, I looked nice. Not Julia Roberts nice, just ordinary nice. Then by some tragedy, luck wasn’t on my side. Less than a year with my new nose, I had an infection. My surgeon had to remove the implant. I was crushed. Bye, bye lover!
Two years passed, I was already in lawschool. My mom, who would move heaven and earth for me wanted me to get a nose job again. I was scared, but I was hopeful too. So I got one.
My new nose and I were perfect for each other. We were inlove. It was long and straight and expensive. Then like a love story gone bad, history repeated itself. I had an infection again. My surgeon explained that the tissues and the implant weren’t compatible. There were just too many wounds inside due to my countless surgeries since the day I was born, the tissues were not responding well to the implant.Or something like that. Then he dropped the bomb. My nose and I had to break up. The implant had to be removed. I couldn’t understand a word he was saying! We had not even celebrated our 1 year anniversary, and now he wants us to split up? I had one of the best surgeons in the country, and he couldn’t save me and my nose! Just like in break-ups, I was in denial. Crash and burn.

I was no stranger to surgeries. I flirted with my surgeon in the operating room a few days after I was born. I dated my anaesthesiologist when I was still a babe in the woods, held hands with my nurses while they fed me through a tube. So who was afraid of needles? Certainly, not I! But during the procedure for the implant removal, I was sweating like hell, I almost peed my pants. Cold hands, cold feet and a broken heart. I felt no pain, but I was dying inside. Not for the nose that I love, but for the dreams that went along with it. The dream of a normal life where I wouldn’t be stared at or ridiculed. Call it vanity, but I just wanted to be and feel like any other girl But I was and am not any other girl. I am different, always have, always will…
I am 29 now, going on 60. There are days when I couldn’t fathom why we weren’t meant for each other. We had so much fun together, and we cried together. And just like any man, he left. But there are days that I’m just thankful for my good old nose that has always loved me at my best and at my worst. Yes, my good old nose, far from being perfect is a perfect gentleman, my leading man, my knight in shining armour, my hero.

So what’s in a face? It’s not just the nose. It’s everything that is being said by the eyes, everything the lips is mum about. The face tells a different story, a story both human and divine.
I have had the nose job of all nose jobs. But then again I realized my time with him was merely bought and borrowed. Who I am and what I am now is not defined by my nose.There is more to the nose and the face than meets the eye. There is a person too.