Friday, Feb 19, 2016

When I've dreamed about which I'd choose, fixing my facial deformities or magically growing legs, I've always chosen my face. My ugly face probably only stops me from working as a male model or fronting the 6 pm news. There's no impact to how I eat, talk, smell, or hear.

Having no legs means it's much harder to get around and by any objective measure of what would be better -- real legs or a fixed face -- real legs should be a no-brainer. Should be.

Anytime I've been asked, though, and whenever I've thought about it myself, I've always opted for a fixed face. There's a part of me that knows what the answer should be to that question, and hates me for not being able to reach it. I'd like to choose to fix my legs. I'd like to say I'd make that choice because I'm entirely at peace with who I am now, happy that the horrid, bumpy, uneven, unequal, disquieting, disfigured, disturbing face has made me who I am. And if I'm happy with who I am, I should be happy with the things that got me to where I am today. I should be happy with the decision I made more than half a lifetime ago not to let the wonderful doctors finish their remaking of me.

So, ask me the question sometime in the future and maybe I'll give you a different answer.

But if I do, I might just be lying to you.

And, to myself.

Ugly, My Memoir, Robert Hoge,

The book is mostly very pedestrian and boring, but still fascinating.