Melty Face
Eileene has come down with a case of Bell’s Palsy; briefly, one side of her face is paralyzed. Fortunately for her, it’s unlikely to stay that way. Typically for neurological disorders, Bell’s Syndrome can stem from any of several causes, including the ever popular “we’re not really sure,” but most cases (about 75%) can be cleared up in a week or two with antibiotics, steroids, or both—or even without treatment. Of the remaining 25%, few are disastrous; treatment may take longer, or the bulk of the symptoms can depart, leaving behind a permanent but minor loss of motor control that can be corrected with therapy. Still, some small fraction of cases are permanent, even with treatment.
(The diagnosis is somewhat confused by the fact that she had a popping jaw a year or two ago, with similar secondary symptoms: numbness, stiffness, a grinding sensation when she works her jaw. And indeed, it cleared up in a week or so with some muscle relaxant and antibiotics—whether they actually did anything, or the condition simply went away on its own is unclear. Perhaps she had the same thing last time, and it was misdiagnosed, or she may have had two different conditions on the two occasions, or one may contribute to the other.)
Eileene looks like she’s had a stroke: she smiles wrong, her speech is slurred, and she’s complained of trouble with dribbling a bit when eating milk and cookies. I’m very worried for her, although there’s nothing to do at this point but take the pills and hope for the best. In the meantime, she’s put on a brave face and encouraged me to do the same. (An absence of pain helps, no doubt.) Easier said than done. But there’s something else: the first time we discussed it, the first thing she said to reassure me was that she’d be willing, if it proved necessary, to go through physical therapy to be able to smile right again—which rather put me off at the time, and continues to bother me now.
The notion of a living with half my own face paralyzed is disturbing; I imagine a lot of inconvenience (the dribbling, biting my cheek, having people misread my expressions) and discomfort (from the asymmetry), and by extension, I find the notion disturbing for Eileene, too. That she should be worried foremost about physical beauty is mildly shameful; it implies that she thinks I’m more worried about how she looks than how she feels, and also that I haven’t put any effort into making the converse abundantly clear. It hurts my feelings to think that she thinks I’m that shallow, that my first reaction to the diagnosis was that my hot babe had become damaged goods.