Strangely, for someone who's curious about everything (a couple days ago out of the blue, I wondered whatever happened to Carol-Anne from the first Poltergeist movie) I haven't asked much about what they did to my face (which is looking a lot more normal by the way, relatively). I mean, they told me the basics and yanno, you pick things up along the way that you can't help hearing as well as the stuff you sort of know you should be taking in.
That scar is coming along well. Those bruises are healing nicely. The bones seem to have fused perfectly. You need to massage it so the skin redrapes properly. We went in through your lip and peeled .... (I blocked the rest of that out)...
But, really, I just don't want to know, it's like once I know then I have a picture in my head and then I see it before I go to sleep at night and that's never a good thing.
Or, what if at really weird and innocent moments, like at a children's party with bubbles or in a hailstorm, I throw my arms up and start screaming,
"noooo, not my face!!!" because I've suddenly become convinced that my face is going to disintegrate if anything bumps it.
It doesn't help in the slightest that my deranged (but well-meaning) mother thought that her idea of wearing a hockey mask during basic training for the military was BRILLIANT and she couldn't understand why I was so utterly horrified.
Okay, *those* mental pictures made me laugh. I'd
really be the eccentric one then wouldn't I?
But, god almighty, I should have asked how many of those little dissolveable stitches are in my head because I'm like a walking dandruff commercial.
Er, but, not dandruff. You know.
If I had to take a guess, and admittedly I'm no expert here, I'd have to say.... A FUCK OF A LOT. And yes, that is my considered opinion.
(Oh, and
Heather O'Rourke died during Poltergeist III. She was 13.)