Zippered Flesh 2: More Tales of Body Enhancements Gone Bad (10 page)

Lucinda’s father, a proud man, wasn’t happy about the idea of further financial assistance from his teenage daughter.

They discovered him hanging in the basement the next morning.

His life insurance policy and his will were in his shirt pocket.

There was no note.

Her mother was crushed into catatonia, so Lucinda made all the calls necessary, as well as the funeral arrangements. She opted for cremation, since it was much easier on the pocketbook, and skipped the casket in favor of a cheap pine box in which the Parker patriarch would be committed to the flames. The funeral director had looked askance, but Lucinda was past caring. Her father’s will had read: “To my dear wife goes seventy percent of my estate remaining after my funeral expenses and to my dear daughter, thirty percent in hopes that she will use it to further her education.” If it was to be thirty percent, then she wanted that figure to be as high as possible, and she wasn’t about to waste resources on incinerating a casket costing thousands of dollars. After all, funerals were nearly as expensive as cheek and chin implants, and there wouldn’t be funds enough for both.

Her mother was never quite the same after they scattered her father’s ashes over Sunset Pond, where he liked to fish now and then. Since Lucinda had skipped the embalming, the urn, the burial plot, and the memorial service, disposing of her father’s body had cost a grand total of six hundred dollars—after the social security death benefit.  Though her mother would not have a burial plot to visit and adorn with flowers, she could always sit at the edge of the pond and put flowers into the water if she wanted to, couldn’t she? What was the difference?

The following week, after the life insurance check was divvied up, her mother caught up on back bills and just managed to save the house from foreclosure.

Lucinda made a surgery appointment.

It was during her recovery at home that Mrs. Parker’s relic of an automobile, the one that should have been replaced years ago, finally gave out. The brakes failed, and in her panic, she lost control of the vehicle and hit a two-hundred-year-old maple tree head-on. She made it through with only a broken leg to show for it, but when they took her to the hospital for a CT scan, they found the cancer.

It was everywhere.

She had, at most, three months to live.

When she gave Lucinda the news from her hospital bed, her beautiful daughter managed to summon up a tear or two, then rushed home and dug out her mother’s life insurance policy and will—which left everything to her.

It was hard for Lucinda to be too upset with that kind of a windfall staring her in the face.

She met with her mother’s doctor the next morning to discuss her mother’s illness and her final days. As the doctor was walking her out, he inquired about family medical history, since her mother was alternately too sick or too upset to discuss it.

“Has anyone else in your family ever had cancer?” he asked.

“Oh, sure. One of my uncles died of it a few years ago.”

“A blood relation?”

“Yes. My mother’s brother. Why?”

“I’m concerned that you may have a predisposition for cancer.”

“What does that mean?”

“That because it runs in your family, you would be more likely to get it than someone whose family is clean of it. What sort of cancer did your uncle have?”

“Colon cancer, I think.”

“Then you should be sure to get a colonoscopy at least once every two years.

Lucinda was alarmed. “And what kind of cancer does my mother have?”

“Well, since it’s spread so far, it’s a little hard to say, but from what I’ve seen in the scan results, I’d guess it started somewhere in the reproductive tract.”

“I had an aunt who died of ovarian cancer.”

“Mother’s side or father’s?”

“Father’s.”

“Oh, then you have a predisposition for it on both sides of your family. Any breast cancer?”

Lucinda nodded miserably. “Two cousins. Both dead.”

“My advice to you, then, is to get a PAP smear, mammogram, and colonoscopy every year, like clockwork,” the doctor said. “My dear, are you all right?”

Lucinda was sheet white and trembling all over.

“I understand that you lost your father recently, too. I’m sure the stress of that and your mother’s situation is taking a huge toll on you.” The doctor pulled his prescription pad from his pocket. “Ever taken Valium?”

“No.”

“Well, you’re going to start. This will at least allow you to get some sleep. Under no circumstances are you to drink alcohol with this medication—do you understand?”

“Yes. But I don’t drink. It’s really bad for the skin. Ages it, you know? I can’t have that. Thank you, doctor.” Lucinda took the slip from his fingers, and then left the hospital.

As the doctor watched her walk away, his eyes narrowed slightly.
The only time she showed any emotion at all was when I explained predisposition.

Lucinda sat in her-father’s-now-her-car on Level B of the hospital’s underground parking garage and stared into space.
I finally got my face and neck looking perfect. There nothing more that has to be done for another five years, and now I could get cancer and die? I don’t think so! I’ve invested too much money in this perfect face to be dying any time soon.

Lucinda firmly believed there is a way out of every problem, and so she reclined her seat a bit and thought.

And it didn’t take long before she had a solution.

A perfect solution.

As it turned out, her mother didn’t have three days left to live, much less three months. She passed peacefully, or so they told Lucinda. Her mother’s body met the same fate as her father’s, even though she had specifically requested embalming and burial in her will. Lucinda rationalized that she’d want to be with her husband, and so it was the pine box and the pond for her, as well.

Between her mother’s insurance policy and what was left of her father’s, Lucinda had $65,000 to her name, as well as a house and a car. It was time to put her plan into action. She picked up the phone and dialed.

The next day, she met with a surgeon to discuss a double radical mastectomy.

“May I ask why you want this procedure if you don’t have cancer? You’re very young and this operation is most disfiguring.”

“I have a predisposition to breast cancer, so I figure no breasts, no cancer. It’s one less thing to worry about,” Lucinda explained.

“Here, let me show you some photographs of post-mastectomy patients. You should know what you’re asking for.” He rolled open a file drawer, extracted a folder and handed it to her.

They didn’t have the desired effect. The mutilated chests moved her not at all. “This doesn’t bother me, doctor. I still want the procedure.”

“May I ask why you are so worried about this at your age?”

“I have, over recent years, paid out approximately $150,000 for facial cosmetic surgery. I have no intention of dying of cancer now or for a long, long time and losing that investment.”

“If that is your reason, then I must respectfully decline to perform this surgery.”

“Okay. I’ll keep looking until I find a doctor who will. You’re certainly not the only one on my list. Good day.”

Lucinda met with four more doctors before she found one who was glad to help her. The surgery was scheduled for that weekend, and went off without a hitch. Lucinda Parker, at age nineteen, had traded in her 34C breasts for two flat round masses of bumpy scar tissue.

And she was satisfied.

While recovering at home, she received the final bill for services rendered. This bill, added to the partial invoices already delivered, came to just over forty thousand dollars. That left her with fifteen thousand, a house, and a car. It also left her with two more procedures that had to be done ASAP.

While recovering, she applied for a second mortgage on the house. She was happy to discover that it was closer to being fully paid off than she had realized, and so had little trouble securing a six-figure equity line of credit. No sooner was she fully recovered from the breast surgery than she was doctor-shopping the next.

“I understand that you want to schedule a complete hysterectomy. And it says here on your paperwork that you’re, what, twenty years old?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Are you having problems with heavy bleeding? Cramping?”

“No, not at all. I have a predisposition for cancer, and if I have a complete hysterectomy, that eliminates three cancer possibilities. No uterus, no ovaries, no cervix, no cancer. It’s three less things to worry about.”

“That may be true, but do you realize that you will never be able to bear children after this operation?”

Lucinda sighed. “Doctor, with a face like this, do you really think I want to spend my time chasing children around? All kids give you is wrinkles and gray hair.”

The doctor looked astonished. “My dear, you will not be able to avoid either of those things forever.”

“With hair dye and plastic surgery, I’m damned well going to try. Now, will you be doing this procedure, or not?”

“‘Not’ young lady. I’m sure you know the way out.”

This time it took twelve turn-downs before she located a willing surgeon, and the bills were much higher and the recovery time much longer and much harder. It took most of her loan to pay for the hysterectomy, and she still had one more expensive procedure to go.

What to do, what to do?

Well, she’d think about it—she had a month or two of convalescing to go through. She was sure to come up with something.

A knock at the door roused her from her thoughts. It was Charlie Foley, fifteen now and working at Harkin’s Market delivering groceries.

“Hi, Lu. Here’s your groceries.” He strode in and set the box on the table. “See you.”

“Hey, wait a minute! Where you off to in such a rush? I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“I’ve been around. Not my fault you haven’t seen me. Though every time you come back from the hospital, you look and act so much less like you that I don’t know who you are anymore.”

“I’m still me, Charlie. Still the same old Lu who used to take you to the movies.”