Katies World

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The face is also made up of layers of blood vessels, sensory and motor nerves, cartilage, bone, and fat. Cranial nerves control the motor muscles and transmit sensory information to the brain, enabling us to see, smell, taste, hear, and feel sensation on the skin. We use our faces to kiss, to speak, to express our emotions. What would we do without a face? Follow the incredible journey of Katie Stubblefield's family as they wait for a donor for her face transplant.

Watch the full film here. Katie was just 18 when she lost her face. That face now exists only in photographs.

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Katie was an irrepressible little girl, her older sister, Olivia McCay, told me. But as she grew older, Olivia noticed, Katie put enormous pressure on herself to achieve. She studied for hours, all the time. When Katie was in high school, the family made two major moves. Her sophomore year they moved from Lakeland, Florida, where she grew up, to Owensboro, Kentucky. Katie enrolled as a junior and fell in love with a classmate.

They started talking about marriage. She was already contending with chronic gastrointestinal troubles and surgery. Katie, who had trusted the headmaster, felt betrayed. When she confronted him, her family told me, he broke up with her. Robert called their mother. When Robert kicked in the locked door, he found his little sister covered in blood. The bullet was a pernicious thief.

Katie’s World Civilization Project

To get a measure of what it stole from Katie, hold your hands up to your face, palms out, your thumbs touching beneath your chin and your index fingers touching between your eyebrows. Gone were part of her forehead; her nose and sinuses; her mouth, except for the corners of her lips; and much of her mandible and maxilla, the bones that make up the jaws and front of the face.

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Her eyes remained, but they were askew and badly damaged. This is how Katie arrived more than five weeks later at the clinic, which was founded in Cleveland, Ohio, in by four doctors, three of whom had served together during World War I and had come home inspired by the military model of teamwork among specialists.

Brian Gastman, the first clinic doctor to see Katie, lifted her onto a gurney and wondered if she would make it.

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She was so tiny. Just pounds. The damage to her pituitary threw her hormones and sodium levels out of whack, which can be deadly. He specializes in head, neck, skin, and high-risk soft-tissue cancers. As a plastic surgeon, he removes tumors and does follow-up reconstructions. He also co-directs the melanoma and high-risk skin cancer program and runs his own research lab.

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When Katie and her friends get together to perform a seance, learn the importance of being careful when tending to spirits of the dead, for it can be a very scary business, especially around Halloween time when all the spirits are awakened from the dead and like to come out and party. For Katy Taylor, see Katie Taylor disambiguation. The biggest facial ever after super sloppy head from kay kush dslaf. Random Gallary Midget scat porn. Everyone — that is — except for Katie.

Robb, Alesia, and Katie often say that Gastman loves Katie like a daughter. I asked him about that. The question made him uncomfortable, and he paused a moment before answering. This is my life mission.

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This is what my training should be for. He acts as the suave counterpoint to Gastman, with his silvery gray hair and bon vivant manner. Over the course of many surgeries, Gastman and a team of specialists stabilized Katie and patched her face. They removed and repaired shattered bones. To create a nasal passage and protect her brain, Gastman made a rudimentary nose and upper lip from her thigh tissue rolled up inside out.

For a chin and lower lip, he used a piece of her Achilles tendon.

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It was challenging work, and Gastman was proud of it. Katie had never seen this face, but she had come to know it by touch—the crooked tube of flesh in the center, the bulbous chin.

tax-marusa.com/order/defytuko/installer-logiciel-espion-sur-iphone-8.php She knew her eyes looked as though someone had grabbed her by the cheeks and jerked up on one side and down on the other. For Katie, was a lost year. She remembers nothing of her suicide attempt or the surgeries that followed. Her parents had to tell her what happened. It shocked her.

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I felt horrible. The Stubblefields never returned to Oxford. Robb and Alesia moved to the Ronald McDonald House near the clinic, into a room about the size of a studio apartment with a makeshift kitchen. Katie qualified for Medicaid, and the clinic paid for much of her care with federal funding to study face transplants. For daily living, the Stubblefields subsisted on the kindness of others—family and friends gave them money, held fund-raisers, and started online campaigns.

Robb picked up odd jobs, painting houses or working security. Katie became their full-time job. Whenever she was in the hospital, one of them was nearly always with her, day and night. A chiropractor. A personal trainer. A nutritionist. Music therapy. Spiritual and healing services. They googled for information, posted updates for friends on a Facebook page, and used a dry-erase calendar to track their schedule.

Two years after Katie arrived at the clinic, I met her and her parents in the waiting area of the plastic surgery department, a large, sunny room that marks one of the many odd crossroads of modern American medicine. Here, patients suffering significant facial disfigurement and scarring wait for their appointments alongside buffed and gleaming clients who come in for Botox injections and face-lift consultations. Katie arrived in a wheelchair pushed by her father.

She wore a surgical mask over the lower half of her face and a brightly colored head scarf. She took my hand and said a cheerful hello, and as we chatted, I saw that in this space, at least, she seemed entirely comfortable. In one way or another, everyone there was dissatisfied with his or her face. When I visited the family at the Big Mac House, as Robb calls it, Katie was almost always in a recliner, tilted back and covered in fleece blankets.

Katie usually listened passively to the conversation but sometimes interjected a comment or a joke, giving me a glimpse of the funny Katie her family frequently described. One day we were talking about religion, which is central to their lives. Where Alesia is emotional, Robb tends toward intellectual discourse. He has a bushy beard that enhances his sagelike manner, and when Alesia is fired up, he gazes at her with a tender smile. That day Alesia was telling me about her extremely conservative Christian upbringing.

This was news to Alesia and Robb, who laughed in the way of parents who figure, What can you do? One evening Alesia told me their situation still felt unreal.

She had never worried about Katie getting into trouble. Katie was sensitive and had a melancholy streak, yes, but she also had a snarky sense of humor. What clues had she missed? She clung to one thing that Kathy Coffman, a clinic psychiatrist, had told her. Five minutes later, or five minutes earlier, and Katie might not have grabbed the rifle.