Growing up, I saw dozens of doctors; if there was a cure, they didn’t know it. They weren’t even sure how it happened, or when, or why. I was otherwise healthy, and never experienced any kind of facial injury or trauma. The only educated guess anyone could come up with was a visit to the dentist and bad luck.
By the time I was 13, I had taken three different kinds of antibiotics and had undergone two biopsies. Out of sheer desperation, my parents took me to Los Angeles to see a famous Russian mystic known for her healing powers.
“You have an illness,” the mystic immediately whispered to my mom in Russian. We had schlepped all the way from San Diego and stood in line for hours in what I remembered to be a hotel banquet hall reserved for weddings and Bat Mitzvahs.
“And you will never find a husband,” the Russian woman added, using her powers to deduct that I was hetero and wanted to get married. She offered magical rocks to store in our house, which she pronounced cursed, and ultimately the reason why misfortune had fallen upon on me. They cost $1,000.
“Let’s go,” my dad told us.
Throughout high school, the chronic pain sharpened and the inflammation spread, the latter which I expertly hid by asking for layered haircuts and side bangs that cloaked the swollen parts of my face I was ashamed of. I never told anyone about my jaw, or the pain, its lifespan infinite and punishing. In photos, I always tilted my head to the right, or made a goofy peace sign with my hand that covered half my face. I never wore my hair up.
The thing about paying attention, I learned, was that nobody really did. Think about it: When was the last time you really focused on someone’s face and took in the details? We see what we more or less expect, and nobody expected a teenage girl to have a swollen jaw every day.
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