My First IPL treatment

[Guest guest]

Friday afternoon I underwent my first IPL treatment in Toronto. Here’s my

story:

I wasn’t nervous. Not until moments before the procedure when the

receptionist handed me a disclaimer stating that there was a chance of

scarring. A minimal chance. But still a chance.

I had met with the dermatologist a few weeks before and she had assured me

that none of her patients had scarred. And she had performed the procedure

on hundreds. But she didn’t show me the disclaimer. Not then.

Sitting in the waiting room weeks later, with the dry legal document in my

hand, I could feel my anxiety multiply like the bacteria count of a

half-eaten hamburger in the sun.

Should I go through with this? What if I am the first of her patients to

suffer scars? God knows how sensitive my skin is.

The rational part of the brain, the side that motivated me to drive 240

miles to Toronto, kicked in and reminded me “to have ovaries.” (That would

translate to “balls” if I were of the opposite gender.)

So, with my ovaries in tact, I grabbed the pen and signed on the dotted

line.

++++++++++++

I couldn’t see a damn thing. I had a pair of lead goggles on my eyes that

made the world look like a black hole.

“This is going to be cold,” said the doc.

The next thing I knew, the doc was squirting globs of frigid gel onto my

face. The bottle made farting noises – like a half empty ketchup bottle at a

picnic.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said, my legs twitching with nervous energy.

“It’s going to be very bright,” she warned.

A flash of intense orange light lit up my under-goggle view as she aimed the

beam on the outside of my right cheek.

“Ouch!” I uttered.

I had read that intense pulse light therapy felt like rubber bands being

snapped on your face. To me it felt more like hot zap. Not as intense as a

match being lit on my face, but more intense than an elastic.

The sound it made reminded me of one of those old-fashioned flash bulbs

photographers use in portrait studios.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

When she reached the portion of my cheek nearest my nose, I flinched.

“It’s a sensitive area,” she said.

There was still another cheek to go, not to mention a nose and a chin.

“Oh, please let this be over soon,” I said silently.

I endured another dozen or more zaps, before she gave me the welcome news

that she was done with me for the day.

“Let me go and get a mirror,” she said.

That must be a good sign, I thought. She wouldn’t be getting a mirror if I

looked like the bride of enstein, right?

Wow. No blisters. No bruises. Sure, with that goo all over it my face I was

as shiny as bald head in July and ya, it was a bit more red than when I came

in, but I didn’t look that bad.

Phew, I thought. No damage done.

****************

Three days have passed and I wonder if I had forked out the $700 CAN(plus

tax) from my own bank account (insurance covered it), would I feel let down?

I keep looking at myself in the mirror. Closely. With bright lights. Maybe

my face is a bit smoother, or maybe it’s my imagination. Maybe my face is a

little less red, or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

I don’t look much different, but hell, I’m not even supposed to notice an

improvement after one treatment anyway.

At least next time I’ll know what to expect. At least next time I’ll be able

to crack a wee smile when the bottle of cooling gel farts in my face.

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