On the horns of a dilemma, I am scheduled to undergo this procedure in about 2 weeks.

I have a deviated septum in my nose that allows for good airflow through just one nostril. Its been this way ever since I can remember. Colds have been arduous, sleeping on my right side not worth it, and sneezing fits that make me feel I am blowing my brains out.

Its an invasive surgery involving full anaesthetic. The greatest danger appears to be operating closely to the brain’s tympanic membrane – or something like that. Puncture that and a whole bunch of brain fluid comes rushing out. *That* sounds like fun. Hey honey, my water’s broken! Also, the sides of my nose are soft (I knew I had a soft side, but I just never suspected it was in my nose), and so they’ll take some of the cartilege (sp?) they remove from my septum and ‘shore up’ the insides of my nose to allow free-er airflow generally. Yikes. This is the part that freaked me out the most and seems, quite frankly, frankensteinian.

Disturbingly, the doctor who will perform the surgery added, rather blithely I thought, that I could throw in any modifications to my nose that could be added in for cosmetic effect only “seeing as we’re in there already.” Those who know me well enough, would very rightly guess my refusal to change any part of me for any cosmetic purpose whatsoever. We’re born with what we’re given and we must make do with it, or lose all sense of soul and self-respect by altering our appearance for appearances’ sake.

However, those same people were not there in Shop class in grade 8 when I was held down my several boys and forced to look profile while the rest of the Shop class marvelled at how much I looked like Sam Eagle from the Muppets. Nor were they there on school bus rides when I was made fun of for my nose’s size. Its utterly ridiculous to still have those memories so clear. But they sit right beside other memories of similar nature from junior and senior High School when I wore the ‘wrong’ clothes, knew too much and was called a ‘brain’ (despite not ever having actually been an A student), or was so painfully shy around girls that I was considered gay.

To alter or not to alter? Horns of a dilemma, indeed. This will be my only shot. I will never again come close to a free opportunity to change something about me that I have hated for decades. Sure, I share my nose with my uncle John and my grandfather, and sure, my mother did her level best to tell me it was Roman, distinguished. But the fact of the matter is I have always hated it, hated what it has done to me. Its like suddenly being handed a get-out-of-jail-free card.

Well, I have two weks to mull it over.

Owen asked me, somewhat abruptly, the other evening an interesting question.

“Why do people in the city hold sticks with speaker things on them at each other?”

I was stumped by the question and he actually asked me a second time, thinking I hadn’t heard the first time. I puzzled and puzzled “until my puzzler was sore” (apologies to Theodor Geisel).

Then, like a wash, understanding came. He was referring to reporters asking questions of other people. This entailed a long explanation of recording devices, microphones specifically, and why we use them and what they do.

It must have been quite a puzzle for him too.

Also, this past Sunday he almost had me convinced of a truth that reminded me of a quote from Allen Ginsberg’s poem America:

“When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks? ”

Owen wanted to know why we pay first for food in a cafeteria (we were at the ROM, where a scanty lunch for one adult and two kids under six plus admission to the museum was 70 bucks. 70 bucks!). “What if we don’t like it?” he wondered. What if, indeed. When buying food, something so core and central to a child’s daily living as is the air they breathe, it should most definitely be something they will like. After this line of query, I was quietly impressed with his observation. He’s a smart little tyke, and not so little any more.