Another reason I write this book is because I’ve thought deeply about the face, skin, aging, and plastic surgery, and I want to share what I know to be true and false with my patients, with those interested in plastic surgery, and with other physicians. Better education about my profession is good for me, my colleagues, and, most important, future patients. Without knowledge, how does a first-time consult know what to look for in a plastic surgeon? Or what to ask the surgeon? I’ll include some guidelines.
I love being a plastic surgeon. I love its intellectual demand and technical artistry. Most of all, I love that I make people happy. I’m with my patients every step of the process, for every suture. Many Park Avenue plastic surgeons don’t see their patients postoperatively: The resident or post-op nurse treats them. Not me. My mentor at Duke Medical School, Dr. David Sabiston, impressed upon me that they’re my patients from the moment they enter the OR until the incisions have matured, sometimes more than a year later. As the captain of the ship, I am responsible for anything that happens to them, plastic-surgery-related, while in my care. This simple lesson in accountability has made me a better surgeon because I see changes in healing and other nuances that, were I not doing my own follow-up, I might not notice or fully understand. (Two examples: With a smoker who’s had a tummy tuck, I can tell sooner, by the shade of blue on her skin, whether she’ll have problems with her wound healing. With a face-lift patient, I can tell whether scars need to be massaged.) And because my patients always see me, not an unknown, the relationship is more gratifying.
Which brings me to the last reason I write this book: to share what it’s like to live the life of a plastic surgeon. We’ve all seen slices of it (pun intended) on hit TV series such as Nip/Tuck, a fictional drama, and Extreme Makeover and The Swan. But these programs, both fictional and “reality,” offer stylized, often sensationalized, depictions of that life. Among books on the subject, none of those written by plastic surgeons talk in detail about the life we live, its daily rigors and quirks. And books about plastic surgery by journalists, while occasionally well researched, don’t come close to capturing the essence of our sense of responsibility to each patient, the numerous details we must consider with each procedure, why we make the decisions we do, and why we make the mistakes we sometimes do. I’ll provide an insider’s view that outsiders can’t, because they don’t live it.
For example, how about this paradox to our life: Can one succeed in a profession suffused with one kind of intimacy without also sacrificing – or at least challenging – intimacy in one’s personal life? I’m usually scrubbed for surgery before the sun rises, so I have to be in bed early. The society cocktail parties, museum benefits, and charity functions to which I’m often invited – and where I regularly see former and future patients – are, for me, restricted functions. I’m expected to be a diplomat, to be cool and calm, always restrained. It’s one glass of wine, tops, and nothing after nine thirty; I’m a doctor. I have to be responsible. I must focus on my surgery.
Even my avocations can be colored by the fact that, like most plastic surgeons, I’m always “on.” When I’m at the Metropolitan Museum of Art or the Frick Museum, I wander the halls looking at spectacular paintings and sculpture, yet I can’t help but analyze them as if they were patients. The young wife in Peter Paul Rubens’ Rubens, His Wife Helena Fourment, and Their Son Peter Paul looks overweight; she could use a neck liposuction. Venus in Titian’s Venus and Adonis is often regaled as the paragon of female perfection, but, to my eye, she’s disproportionate. And whenever I see John Singer Sargent’s magnificent Madame X, which depicts a side view of her large nose with its dorsal hump and flared nostrils, I can’t help but think, What would she look like if I reduced her tip projection and rasped her dorsum?
This out-of-office PSR – Plastic Surgeon’s Radar – is not just operative while I’m strolling the halls of a museum; it’s frequently on during social functions, including when I’m having dinner with a woman. It’s not long before the more daring of my dates will ask me to comment on what she may or may not need – and sometimes they don’t like the reply. One woman, while dancing with me on our second date, challenged me to assess her breasts: “Cap” – my nickname – “what size do you think they are?”
What do I say?
That I know they’re 325 ccs? That the implant casings are “smooth” (as opposed to “textured,” whose surface features tiny ridges)? That they’re of “moderate profile” (the distance of the implants from the chest wall)? That I can even name the implant manufacturer?
“The perfect size,” I replied. “They suit you well.”
I operate on men and women. I physically and psychologically change them, yet I must remain distant. I champion their initiative and sometimes courage to transform themselves, yet I must be keenly aware of, and candid about, their weaknesses and occasionally misplaced motivations.
My professional obsession is flaws. My goal is perfection.
I agree with Aristotle: The pursuit of life is happiness. Figure out what’s important in life, then go for it. If there’s a physical attribute that can be fixed, and the procedure involves minimal risk, and your life will be improved because of the fix, then why not do it? I don’t trivialize the risk of surgery because all surgery entails risk. But I see, every week, how plastic surgery delivers physical results that change people’s lives in positive ways. I love Billy Crystal’s famous Fernando Lamas impression on Saturday Night Live – “It’s better to look good than to feel good.” It’s funny, at first, because it’s about vanity and superficiality. But for many people it isn’t far from the truth. For them, feeling good is looking good. Attractive physical appearance reinforces good body image, and good body image affects psyche. Others see you in a different light. You may be noticed and appreciated more. You’re more likely to get promoted. You get more out of life.
As one face-lift patient told me on a postoperative visit, “This changed my head.”
*I can’t – though I can tell you a few ways to tell if someone’s had plastic surgery:
1. Unevenly dimpled legs. (Liposuction)
2. Symmetrical scars. (Under the armpits: a subpectoral breast augmentation; in the same position on the hips, backs of legs, or fronts of legs: lipo)
3. Scars just in front of the ears. (Face-lift)
4. A break in the hairline. (Face-lift)
5. Facial skin different from skin on top of the hand or, more accurate (since lasers easily remove hand wrinkles and brown spots), different from skin on the lower leg. (Face-lift)
6. Cheekbones too sculpted for overall anatomy. (Cheek implants)
7. Incisions on the tops of the eyelids, sometimes only visible with the eyes closed. (Eyelid lift)
*In the long run, the forehead lift is probably cheaper.
*Six months later I spot her at The Ivy in Los Angeles. She’s having a romantic dinner with a younger man.
You aren’t born to be a surgeon. There’s no natural talent for it. No one is born with a great pair of hands for surgery – for football and piano, maybe; for surgery, no. Usually you become a surgeon (or a doctor, generally) because you want to