Sasha

Dr. Sullivan is a world-renowned plastic surgeon, and he does not work in the emergency room at Serenity Medical Center. But, last week he was there for an emergency when one of his patients popped a breast implant and took an ambulance to the ER. I’m pretty sure I rolled my eyes so hard they hurt when I found out that little piece of trivia.

It just so happens I went through the windshield of my 2009 Jeep Cherokee that very same night, and the good Dr. Sullivan stitched up two large gashes on my face. I don’t remember much about meeting him except for the distinct feeling he was an egotistical, arrogant douche waffle. I couldn’t even tell you why I thought that, maybe it was the drugs or the concussion, but the feeling was strong, and it didn’t fade with the drugs.

Today, I have the pleasure of meeting with him, un-medicated, for a follow-up appointment to check on my lacerations and schedule surgery on my nose which was smashed in the accident.

This morning when I was getting ready, I considered I might have been wrong about Dr. Sullivan. Maybe he is a down-to-earth, compassionate physician who just happens to be a plastic surgeon and looks like a movie star in his expensive clothes and his million-dollar Franck Muller watch. Yeah, right.

I’ve always been one to trust my instincts, and my instincts say this guy is a typical materialistic jerkwad who became a doctor for the money and not because he genuinely wanted to help people.

I snort when I pull up to the Mason and Sullivan Plastic Surgery Center. As hard as I try not to judge, I can’t help it when I slide my Ford Taurus rental into a row of high-end cars that cost more than I make in a year. Don’t judge a book by its cover, Sasha, my mom always says, so I stuff my first impression of the doctor, his facility, and his clientele down deep until my 2:00 p.m. appointment.

Inside, I feel as out of place as my Taurus looks in the parking lot. I check in and take my clipboard of papers to a plush leather sofa and sit with my head down focusing on the questions in front of me. I feel the eyes of a half-dozen women of various ages boring into me while I work. I briefly glanced over the group when I entered the front door. There’s a woman in her fifties across from me with a dressing on her nose, rhinoplasty I assume. Next to her sits a twenty-something woman with boobs so big I’m embarrassed for her, and on either side of me, there are two flat-chested women staring at Miss Triple D probably hoping for the same ridiculous results.

And then there is me with my natural C-cup boobs, my bruised and slashed up face, and a nose that looks like I got into a fight with Mike Tyson. Perfect, I couldn’t fit in any less, not that I care. I’m young, I’m in good shape, and I have nice boobs. I’ve never even considered having plastic surgery until my nose was rearranged last week. I just need to get through this surgery and back to my average life managing the Shoe Department at Macy’s.

“Sasha Rivers?” a nurse calls out from a door next to the marble reception desk.

“Yes, that’s me,” I say standing to join the Barbie-esque nurse holding another clipboard. “I’m not done filling these out yet,” I admit holding up the papers I barely started filling out.

“That’s fine, you can finish them in the exam room, no problem.” Barbie’s real name is Nia, and she is over-the-top friendly. That’s one point for the Mason and Sullivan clinic and zero for me.

“Thanks,” I say following her down a long hall to a small inlet where I step on a scale, and Nia measures how tall I am.

“We can go right in here,” she says opening one of the many exam-room doors. I follow her in and look around at the enormous space. Why anyone needs this much room to do a simple physical exam is beyond me.

There is a full-size couch and coffee table under a mammoth mirror at one end, a small area that looks almost like a wet bar, but surely isn’t, on the right. And closer to the door where we are still standing is a more traditional exam table, a sink, and counter with cupboards overhead.

“Wow, this is some exam room,” I say more to my self than Nia.

She laughs a musical laugh and pats the exam table. “The doctors like to sit down and get comfortable with their patients after a consultation. Not all the rooms are this big.”

Get comfortable, huh? I don’t know what to think of that comment. “I don’t mind sitting on the table and talking.”

Nia lifts one perfectly shaped eyebrow at me. “Dr. Sullivan is adamant about separating his physical exams from making a plan of care. He thinks it’s important to switch spaces so you can focus on the surgical options and the side effects of the procedures.”

“Oh. Okay, whatever.” I think that’s a load of crap, but hey, who am I to mess with his Zen? She frowns but only for a fraction of a second, and her plastic smile is plastered on her face again.

“All right, I’m going to take your vital signs, and you can finish filling out your paperwork while you wait for Dr. Sullivan. Sound like a plan?” She tilts her head to the side like a dog does when he wants a Milk-Bone.

“Uh, yeah, sure.”

She busies herself with wrapping the blood pressure cuff around my arm and sliding a thermometer across my forehead while I sit dutifully waiting to finish my paperwork.

“Perfect, perfect, perfect,” she chirps pointing at my forehead, my wrist, and my arm indicating that my temp, pulse, and blood pressure are perfect. And then she giggles like that little comment of hers was hilarious.

I pull up the corners of my mouth with a fake-ass smile, and a huh escapes me before I can stop myself. She frowns again, but like the first time, she covers it with a toothy Crest-white smile evening up the score. One point for me, and one for the fake plastic surgery clinic.

“Dr. Sullivan will be in to see you soon. Make yourself at home while you wait. We have magazines, and there is a television to watch if you like.”

“A TV? How long do you expect him to take?” I’m thinking if she is offering me a TV, it might be a while.

“Oh, not long, don’t worry. He’s running right on schedule today.”

That’s good because I feel like shit, and I want to go home. “Okay, thanks.”

When I’m alone, I decide to stay put on the exam table. I would feel weird lounging on the couch while I wait. After about ten minutes, I’m getting irritated. I could use a Vicodin for the pain in my face and a nap. I can’t take narcotics and drive so I haven’t had anything for pain for hours, and my face is throbbing.

Fifteen more minutes pass, and when I am moments away from leaving, Dr. Sullivan finally decides to grace me with his presence.

“Hello, Ms. Rivers, is it?”

“Yes,” I snap and shift my weight from one ass cheek to the other to keep the circulation going.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I had a little emergency that required my attention.”

“It’s fine, can we make the rest of this appointment quick? I’m in a lot of pain, and I’d like to go home so I can take something for it.” I wince when he reaches out and presses a finger on one side of my nose.

“We have procedures and protocols I am required to follow, but I’ll do what I can.”

“How about you start by not touching my nose again?”

He frowns and folds his arms across his chest. “I can get you something for the pain.”

“Can’t. I’m driving myself.”

“Suit yourself. So, how do the lacerations feel? They’re looking very good, and you won’t have any scaring.”

“None?” I ask surprised. I know he did a great job, but I figured when all was said and done, there would be some scaring.

“Nope, none. I’m great at what I do… the best actually. You’re lucky I happened to be at the hospital that night. If the ER docs had tried to stitch you up, you would have ended up looking like Frankenstein for the rest of your life.”

Wow, was I right! This guy thinks he’s a god. I knew it, douche waffle with a capital D. The urge to roll my eyes is detoured only by the pain in my face.

“Yeah, thanks,” I say with no enthusiasm whatsoever. With his arms still crossed, he raises his hand to his chin to look at me like a bug under a microscope.

“That doesn’t please you?” he asks.

I scrunch up my face and grip the edge of the exam table. “Please me?”

“Not looking like a monster. Usually, my patients are grateful when they don’t have grueling scars covering their faces.”

“Scars build character. People are too worried about appearances these days,” I say, too stubborn to admit I agree with him or to thank him for his excellent work. I don’t know why, but he irks me, and I can’t bring myself to suck it up and play nice.

His eyebrows shoot up, and the corners of his perfectly shaped lips turn down. For a split second, two feelings course through me. One is regret for not thanking him. I can’t be sure, but I think I may have bruised his ego a bit. Two is a magnetic attraction to his pouty mouth. A part of me, a very small part, wants to lean forward and kiss this asshole. Another part wants to hop off this table and leave, but I can’t. I need my damn nose fixed, and since he decided to take it upon himself to stitch me up in the ER, I’m stuck with him as a plastic surgeon according to my insurance plan.

“Well, if you’re so into building character, would you like to leave your nose a mangled mess?” Oh my God. I can’t believe he said that. He’s a doctor, a professional who is supposed to recommend the best plan of action for a patient’s health and not act like a snide baby.

“I can’t breathe through it, and last I knew it was the primary purpose of a nose so no, I’m not interested in leaving it a mangled mess as you so eloquently put it.”

“I’m glad we are on the same page, then.” He steps forward and bends his knees enough to put us eye to eye. He has extraordinary eyes—they’re gold and not golden brown or golden but gold like the metal. It’s not a natural color. Maybe he has contacts? Either way, I can’t stop staring at them.

He doesn’t seem to notice my ogling, though. He’s busy looking at my mangled nose. It shouldn’t bother me, but I hate that he described it that way. It makes me feel more self-conscious than I did in the first place, and that was pretty self-conscious.

“They’re not contacts. Amber, it’s the rarest eye color and usually much darker.”

“Oh.” I don’t know what else to say. I thought he was concentrating on what he was doing and not my staring. “I can give you your old nose back, or, if you like, I can make it different. In both cases, you will be able to breathe fine.”

“I’ll keep my old nose, thanks.” I liked my old nose, and I have no idea why he would suggest making it different.

He steps away, and I miss his closeness. Why do I miss his closeness? It hasn’t been that long since I’ve been on a date, has it?

“We should schedule the surgery soon. Are you available day after tomorrow in the morning?” He turns his back to me and opens a cabinet over the sink to get some papers. More paperwork, fun.

“Yes, that’s fine.”

“You’ll need to be here at 6:00 a.m., and you will need someone to drive you home. Can you arrange that?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Your boyfriend can be with you right up until you go into the OR and again when you are in recovery. If there are no complications, you can go home the same day.”

Nice way to slip the boyfriend reference in there, I’ll give him that. But then again, he’s probably used to digging for tidbits of his patient’s personal lives. He doesn’t have a wedding ring on, and I’d be willing to bet a month’s salary, he uses his practice for his personal dating service. I can just see it now, women making appointments so they can have a few minutes of private time with the good doctor. Then he points out all the flaws he wants to fix to make them perfectly fuckable. They have a fling for a few months, and then he moves on to his next conquest. Or even worse, he signs her up for another liposuction procedure on her ass and fucks her for a few more months.

“My best friend can help me.”

“Good. Will she be able to stay with you for about twenty-four hours until you’re able to get around on your own?”

“Yes, and if not, I have friends. I’ll be fine.”

“All right then, I’ll have Nia come back in and explain the pre-op orders to you, and I’ll see you day after tomorrow.” He shoves a stack of papers at me, and I take them. Then he gives me a little salute, and he’s gone. So much for a long, comfortable appointment lounging on the couch discussing my surgery. Nia had it all wrong, her boss is a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am kind of doctor and not a coffee-and-tea Chatty Cathy. Or maybe it’s just me?

Who cares? I’m done, my surgery is scheduled, and I’m on my way home to drug myself up and pass out.

Sometimes it’s good to check out for the day.