major laser disaster

On the day after my birthday, Monday, December 2, I went to a plastic surgeon’s office and had a laser procedure done on my face. It was sold to me as a great way to stimulate new collagen production and get rid of brown spots and unevenness on the skin surface.  My friend Sandra, who I consider an expert on all things related to beauty and fashion, advised me that the procedure was like having a bad sunburn and definitely worth the time and money.  

Given the information I collected, choosing a laser procedure felt like a smart decision.  I thought it would calm the voices in my head that were saying, “Do something right now about your wrinkles before it’s too late!”  Last year, that same annoying voice led me to meet with three or four plastic surgeons, each for a consultation fee of $100 to $150.  The doctors unanimously said that if I wanted to improve the signs of aging, I should consider a full face AND neck lift at a cost of about $40k and three weeks or more of down time.  Their recommendation was so startling that I began to look for cheaper, less drastic options. A laser treatment seemed like a reasonable compromise.

The appointment was set for 11 am on Monday. I was told that it would take an hour to apply topical numbing cream, another 45 minutes for the laser and then my face would be very hot for about 30 to 40 minutes. I was so confident that the laser treatment would be doable, I actually made lunch plans to meet three friends at my house at 1:30 pm.  Spoiler here: I ended up being a solid 2 hours late for lunch. 

From 11 am to noon, I sat in a very relaxing room reading a book while the numbing cream did it’s work.  Just before noon, I went into the bathroom to wash off the numbing cream and realized that I really could not feel my face. I was encouraged that this meant that I would breeze through the procedure. However, my optimism did not pay off. 

The actual procedure began with the laser device being applied to my forehead.  The nurse did three or four passes horizontally along my forehead, each time turning up the strength of the laser.  I made it through the second pass along my forehead before I started to cry. I asked her what the burning smell was – had she singed my eyebrows? No, it was my skin! By the time she completed my forehead, tears were streaming out of my eyes and I was whimpering.  My forehead was on fire! A full panic ensued. How could I possibly make it through the remaining sections of my face? The nurse casually mentioned that the nose and upper lip were the most sensitive areas and I just couldn’t fathom that anything could hurt worse than my forehead already did.

The remaining 30 minutes of the procedure were pure torture.  I never stopped weeping and began to writhe in the chair. I can only imagine what a 49-year-old woman crying uncontrollably in her Lululemon athleisure outfit looks like.   I somehow persevered through the rest of my face and part of my neck while in a full emotional break down. I had a death grip on a handheld hose that was blowing cold air on the fire that was my face and was barely able to respond to questions from the nurse. Once completed, the nurse addressed me with a slightly patronizing tone letting me know that she hadn’t been able to deliver the level of laser strength she had hoped to. She did allow me to stay in the treatment room as long as needed where I proceeded to apply the cold air to my face for 90 minutes and continue to cry on and off.

While I attempted to calm down and endure the blazing heat on my face, the plastic surgeon came into the room and sat down to speak with me.  He said that I seemed to have had a panic attack and that he had two pieces of good news – given today’s experience, all future treatments would involve some kind of sedation and surgical options may be better for me since I would not be awake. I did not receive this information as “good news.”  As soon as he left, I started googling “symptoms of panic attack” and continued trying to pull myself together and kept adding time to the cold air machine.  

After a 10 minute meditation, I felt like I could stop using the cold air and proceeded to the front desk and then to my car.  Right as I was about to leave the treatment room, my husband called and I fell apart crying again while speaking with him. I was able to pay and leave while still on the phone with him and promised him repeatedly that I would never do this again.  Luckily, he was headed out of town that evening and didn’t see me until Wednesday afternoon – 48 hours later.

Once my face was no longer on fire, I was able to calm down.  On a high note, my friends had waited for me at my house with my favorite salad and a birthday cupcake. They reassured me that, given the options, the laser was a solid choice and that my skin was going to look so amazing that the pain would be worth it.  These affirmations were possibly not entirely honest but were exactly what I needed to hear. We agreed that the struggle is real and we are not ready to give up and stop coloring our hair, wearing only comfortable shoes and dressing in Eileen Fisher. 

Over the next two days, my face was bright red and swelled up like I was 42 weeks pregnant with twins.  I forced myself to show up to a hair appointment with my swollen tomato head but otherwise tried to hide in my house.   My husband returned from his work trip Wednesday evening and tried to avoid looking at my misshapen, beet-colored face. With pity in his eyes, he asked me, “When do I get my normal wife back again?” 

Six days later, after three days of mild flaking and peeling of dried, burnt skin, I did finally look normal again. The top layer of old, sun damaged skin was replaced with a beautiful, brand new layer of skin on my face.  Besides Sandra, I have since talked to at least three other people who had a laser treatment, expected it to be uncomfortable but not painful and agreed that it was, in fact, torture. I do feel some vindication in knowing I’m not entirely unhinged and that others responded similarly to what seemed like an unbearable undertaking.

In the end, my skin looks good but I know the sun spots will be back.  I am not sure I can show my face again at the doctor’s office where I had this procedure.  I’m embarrassed about falling apart and I also promised my husband that there would be no future disfiguring procedures.  Sandra was shocked to hear how I responded to the treatment and may not be so quick to recommend any beauty treatments going forward.  She’s likely downgraded me only to rookie regimens like facials, masks and botox. 

Once again, I’m adrift and aimless with how to address the signs of aging besides lathering on lotion at night and sunscreen during the day.  What does my future hold? Green visors when driving? Sun hats with flaps over the back of my neck? Breathable long sleeve shirts and convertible SPF pants for all outdoor activities? I’m suddenly concerned that I’ll be wearing my Dad’s “adult active community” wardrobe.