Face, Part III

Dr. Bart van de Ven passed away. Unexpectedly, of an illness.

This is the second-worst version of my nightmare.

The worse one was him dying during my procedure.

As I’d wake up from anesthesia, I would croak, “Was it a success?”

“There was a complication,” they would tell me.

I made the joke that I was praying for the health of Dr. Bart van de Ven, except it wasn’t a joke. In private, I would make the sign of the cross, clasp my hands, and say a prayer for the health of Dr. Bart van de Ven.

“Please keep Dr. Bart van de Ven alive until at least March 22, and preferably after that as well.”

Then I would throw in an Our Father and three Hail Marys to make it stick.

It didn’t.

I haven’t gotten out of this chair yet. I should still be able to walk, right?

These ravens, they keep flying by the window right above my eyes. One of them, I swear to god, was staring right at me.

I get it! I get it, you dumb motherfuckers — he’s dead. I don’t need your symbolism, as subtle as a two-by-four to the face. I get it. Fuck off. Thanks.

I just need to find a hole to crawl in and die.

Reasons why this is sad:

• He was the only clinician — the only one — I was excited to see.
• I wrote him a fucking letter.
• He agreed to take me on, the lone American, as a client.
• He did the kind of work I needed to be me.
• I had planned my job, my year, my life around this procedure.
• Now… poof. Vanished. It’s not happening.

It all feels just… surreal.

No new face. Not in 18 days.

This is a blow.

My condolences to Dr. van de Ven’s family and everyone who knew him. I had one consultation with him, for 12 minutes, six months ago. I was ready to put my future, my femininity, my face into his hands, literally. Now those hands are still.