Dying to Look Better

19 January 2004


Olivia Goldsmith Dies after Plastic Surgery

The author of the witty First Wives' Club, Olivia Goldsmith, died last week after complications from the anesthesia given her during plastic surgery. She was 54, and while there is no suggestion that there was any malpractice or negligence, one can't help but feel that she was too young to die. And if so, she was too young for plastic surgery.

There is a place in medicine for such operations. There are those born with deformities that make life hell and, when corrected, leave a whole and vibrant person behind. Burn victims, who might otherwise simply die, are major beneficiaries from skin grafts. Accident victims can make a similarly valid claim.

The vanity surgery, though, accounts for the overwhelming majority of such operations, and it should account for none. "Having a little work done" is a euphemism that leads people to think resculpting the face, enhancing or diminishing various features is as serious as a haircut. Surgery means the cutting and sewing of the body, drugging the patient into oblivion. The only difference between assault with a deadly weapon and surgery is the fact that a skilled surgeon can preserve life by his or her actions. It is that incredible skill and trained talent that makes it almost a miracle.

The human form is a magnificent thing, in both its male and female versions. And variations on the theme result in some people being called beautiful and others ugly. Studies prove time and again that those with the attributes a culture determines to be attractive have an easier time of it than those who do not. And while being judgmental may not be a 21st century western vogue, Kensington believes everything should be judged all the time -- and that beauty is better than ugliness.

At the same time, Kensington does not believe in dying for causes (killing for them, yes, dying, no). While it may be a romantic ideal to die for beauty, there is nothing good to be said about what happened to Ms. Goldsmith during a facelift. She had another twenty or thirty or forty years of writing, living and loving to do. What was inside her skin was far more valuable than the way that skin was set upon her frame. Her death was a shame, pure and simple.

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