February 20, 2021
Literally. On Tuesday morning, the morning after my husband told me our marriage was over, I saw my dermatologist (because what else do you do after you’ve been dumped?). The week prior, I had made an appointment with this doctor for a second opinion regarding a scar that I have on my face after having a precancerous mole removed. I hate this scar – it’s long and deep and looks awful in the wrong lighting – especially in natural sunlight.
After voicing my concerns about the appearance of my scar, my dermatologist said that this is something that can easily be fixed via micro needling. With my brain still mush from the night before, I said, “Great, sign me up” and she made an appointment for me to come back the following Friday (yesterday). The doctor went over the procedure with me but, again, in my daze, I didn’t absorb any of the information that she had offered. I was just under the impression, through no fault of hers, that I was going to get my scar evened out and that it somehow involved a needle pen, my own blood and collagen. Ask me how many questions I asked at that appointment? 0. As someone with a Type A personality, this is very unusual for me, but I’ve been in outer space lately, so there’s that.
So yesterday I show up to get micro needled. I told some family and close friends that my scar might be red for a few days but by the time I go back to work on Monday, no one will be able to tell. I was actually excited since this was something that I was doing for myself. It also, ever so briefly, gave me a distraction from wallowing in my own heartbreak. New Megg, who this?
I was brought to the examination room when the Medical Assistant starting slathering my whole face with numbing cream. “Ummm, I’m just here for the scar on my chin,” I said to her beginning to panic. “OK,” she replied back. This one was a peach. No empathy, bedside manner or care in the world. She left me for 20 minutes while I aggressively Googled “micro needle procedures and outcomes” as I waited. I’m assuming the M.A. told the dermatologist about my deer-in-the-headlights look, so she came in and took the time to answer all of the questions that I should have asked her three days prior. She really is amazing.
If you’ve ever had a micro needle session with the blood PRP, then you know. If you haven’t, do your research beforehand. It definitely wasn’t my favorite thing and it was NOT relaxing in the slightest. My face was numb but there were plenty of “sensitive spots” aka: spots not covered by the numbing cream that made me tense up like you wouldn’t believe. The procedure itself only took 15-20 minutes. She handed me a mirror and told me “Most of the redness will be gone by Sunday.”
Holy shit, I look(ed) like I got my pant leg stuck in a car door and was dragged down the street. I heard all the one-liners from people who received my “after” picture:
“You look like every mug shot I’ve ever seen!” – My father
“It looks like you have bloody bags under your eyes!” – My cousin
Isn’t family great? The jokes kept coming. And here I am, genuinely laughing (for the third time this week!) at everyone’s reactions. Except when I laughed, my face was still numb and I looked like I had a few too many Botox injections. That was even funnier. A couple hours later I tried eating a grilled cheese, but couldn’t open my mouth wide enough to take big girl bites. Have you ever seen that video when a toddler goes to take a bite out of her parent’s burrito but she barely makes a dent? That was me trying to navigate this greasy and overly cheesy sandwich. I’m glad I was alone, because if my husband didn’t already leave me, he would have at that moment (yea, that was dark).
When I woke up this morning, I couldn’t bring myself to immediately get out of bed to look in the mirror. Yes, my derm said that the redness will be gone by Sunday, tomorrow, but somehow I knew that I would be an exception. Why? Because it’s me. Sure enough, I gain the courage to look into my bathroom mirror and saw what looks like an actor in makeup ready to work a haunted house staring back at me. Or, an extra from a zombie movie. You get what I’m trying to say – I looked like a disaster. “Please continue with the blood PRP to the face,” my dermatologist texts me. So I open my fridge that contains two vials of my own blood, and gently moisturize it into my face. This is my life now.