by Phyllis
Okay, so the stents were out and I was home again recovering, both physically and mentally.
On the mental side, the scars are still there, as evidenced by my previous post. But physically I had concerns, and they were four-fold. Let me attack them one at a time.
1. My nose and sinuses still felt congested and I still couldn't breathe through my nose like I wanted to. I knew there was still some swelling and drainage (a horrible word, by the way), and an awful lot of mucus. One day after about a half hour of snorting, hawking, and gagging, I expelled a massive green mass from my right nostril. I was so impressed with its size, I summoned MLB to come have a look. Against her better judgment, she did, and I got to see a little color drain out of her face. (Please don't ask me about the time in college MLB was talking to me on the phone and overheard an embarrassing [somehow similar?] event.)
In later visits to Dr. Bester's office, he did tests to measure the air flow through my new nasal airway. The measurements proved I had adequate air flow. Fine, I thought, but I still can hardly breathe.
2. I had trouble keeping my nose from bleeding. It may have been wise to mention this last as I will not discuss everything that came of it until my next post, but it was my secondary concern at the time. But stay tuned for a delicious tale. And now on to...
3. Some people might not have the balls to share something like this, but my next concern was that my testicles were quite swollen. I couldn't figure it out. I knew all I had been operated on was my nose, and I checked the drugs I was taking for possible side-effects, but I found nothing. Yet there they were, big as Dallas. Definitely swollen and tender. I didn't like it. When I went to the emergency room for issue number 4, I mentioned this new problem of mine, and the doctor ordered an ultrasound.
The tech came and performed it, and I couldn't shake the feeling he was laughing at me silently the whole time. I bet he thought I was nuts. And sure enough, the results came back and there were no problems. And I bet I know how it was written up on the report: "Nothing remarkable."
Dr. Bester, in one of my post-surgery appointments, had an idea. He told MLB, who had come with me, I was "a little backed up." He advised MLB to go ahead and help me out. You know, marital responsibilities and all. Good old Dr. Bester. What a guy!
4. As you may know, I take blood thinners due to a PE I had when I was 29. I had to stop for the surgery, but several days after, even though I had started taking them again, I felt an unmistakable pain in my Schwarzeneggar-like calf. Soon I was limping around the house so noticeably that MLB knew what was wrong, too.
So off to the ER we went, where I had an ultrasound (yes I had two that day) which revealed another clot in my leg. But the blood thinners I was now back on were starting to do their job again, and I was sent home with a large bill and a diagnosis I could have made myself.
Seriously, stick around for part 7.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
Dr. Bester, part 5
by Phyllis
I continued to recover at home, and even though I felt like crud, I had reason to enjoy this time. My three boys have never been so kind, caring, and loving as they were every time they came in the room and looked at my gauze-covered nose which nicely accented the miserable look on my face. Good times.
Dr. Bester had placed stents in my nose during the surgery. These were to stay in for seven days. The ironic result was that, inasmuch as they entirely filled my nostrils and extended upward to my sinuses, I could not breathe out of my nose AT ALL. I certainly looked forward eagerly to the day Dr. Bester would remove them, and I knew this would be done during an office visit, so I figured it was not a big deal. Dr. Bester sure talked like it wasn't.
So I went with MLB (a good girl, that) to my appointment and she came to the room where Dr. Bester would meet us to remove the stents. It was an exciting time anticipating my first few breaths through my newly-repaired nose. Quite casually, and only a few seconds after he came in the room, Dr. Bester grabbed the end of one of the stents and started to tug. It would not budge. He twisted it and tugged some more and anchored himself and began to bear down. It was becoming evident this was a little more than not a big deal.
As Dr. Bester began to pull harder and harder, and as I worked harder and harder to stifle the urge to scream out, my eyes began to tear up and flow heavily down my cheeks. I was still not making much more than a couple swallowed groans and grunts as Dr. Bester was in full tug-of-war mode. As he was just winning this round and the stent (how could something stuffed up my nose be more than 6 inches long?) was finally leaving my nose, I broke out in an intense sweat from the top of my head and it began to flow down and drench my face.
At or about this time MLB witnessed the manifestation of something she had only ever heard of before: all the color draining from one's face. She told me afterward it was instantaneous, very creepy, and, coupled with the deluge of tears and sweat, quite frightening to observe. But you will have to take her word for that.
Or if you can find Dr. Bester, I bet you could ask him, too. Because as disoriented and woozy as I was, I saw him a little agitated and concerned about my present state, and, with the calm reserve of a professional, he quickly and emphatically instructed me to begin an exercise with my feet: I was to continually press alternately with each foot toward the floor (like flooring the gas pedal in a car) and then release upward. I didn't and still don't know what this does, but he told me later he was certain I was about to pass out. I didn't.
So there it was folks, that day in his little examination room. The single most excruciating pain I have ever consciously endured in my life had just passed. And this without anesthesia, a sedative, or time to mentally prepare myself (if that kind of thing works). He had said nothing to me about what it would be like, perhaps because he didn't know himself. Is that possible?
And having gone through this terrible experience, panting now, mopping my head and face, feeling my racing heart slow a little, and receiving tender touches and looks from MLB, I was lucid enough to come to a terrible realization: Dr. Bester still needed to take the other stent out!
How about a sedative now, or a little time, or some laughing gas? No. As he moved in to latch on to the other stent, I tried to steel myself for what I knew was coming.
I continued to recover at home, and even though I felt like crud, I had reason to enjoy this time. My three boys have never been so kind, caring, and loving as they were every time they came in the room and looked at my gauze-covered nose which nicely accented the miserable look on my face. Good times.
Dr. Bester had placed stents in my nose during the surgery. These were to stay in for seven days. The ironic result was that, inasmuch as they entirely filled my nostrils and extended upward to my sinuses, I could not breathe out of my nose AT ALL. I certainly looked forward eagerly to the day Dr. Bester would remove them, and I knew this would be done during an office visit, so I figured it was not a big deal. Dr. Bester sure talked like it wasn't.
So I went with MLB (a good girl, that) to my appointment and she came to the room where Dr. Bester would meet us to remove the stents. It was an exciting time anticipating my first few breaths through my newly-repaired nose. Quite casually, and only a few seconds after he came in the room, Dr. Bester grabbed the end of one of the stents and started to tug. It would not budge. He twisted it and tugged some more and anchored himself and began to bear down. It was becoming evident this was a little more than not a big deal.
As Dr. Bester began to pull harder and harder, and as I worked harder and harder to stifle the urge to scream out, my eyes began to tear up and flow heavily down my cheeks. I was still not making much more than a couple swallowed groans and grunts as Dr. Bester was in full tug-of-war mode. As he was just winning this round and the stent (how could something stuffed up my nose be more than 6 inches long?) was finally leaving my nose, I broke out in an intense sweat from the top of my head and it began to flow down and drench my face.
At or about this time MLB witnessed the manifestation of something she had only ever heard of before: all the color draining from one's face. She told me afterward it was instantaneous, very creepy, and, coupled with the deluge of tears and sweat, quite frightening to observe. But you will have to take her word for that.
Or if you can find Dr. Bester, I bet you could ask him, too. Because as disoriented and woozy as I was, I saw him a little agitated and concerned about my present state, and, with the calm reserve of a professional, he quickly and emphatically instructed me to begin an exercise with my feet: I was to continually press alternately with each foot toward the floor (like flooring the gas pedal in a car) and then release upward. I didn't and still don't know what this does, but he told me later he was certain I was about to pass out. I didn't.
So there it was folks, that day in his little examination room. The single most excruciating pain I have ever consciously endured in my life had just passed. And this without anesthesia, a sedative, or time to mentally prepare myself (if that kind of thing works). He had said nothing to me about what it would be like, perhaps because he didn't know himself. Is that possible?
And having gone through this terrible experience, panting now, mopping my head and face, feeling my racing heart slow a little, and receiving tender touches and looks from MLB, I was lucid enough to come to a terrible realization: Dr. Bester still needed to take the other stent out!
How about a sedative now, or a little time, or some laughing gas? No. As he moved in to latch on to the other stent, I tried to steel myself for what I knew was coming.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Dr. Bester, part 4
by Phyllis
Dr. Bester finally condescended to appear for one my appointments with him before surgery, and most (and if not most, then at the very least none) of my fears and concerns were allayed. I asked him too how my body would know to breathe through my newly-functional nose instead of my mouth as it had my whole life. His answer was so impressive I cannot now remember what he said.
Little should be said of the actual procedure in that I clearly was present but not aware of its progress and ultimate completion. My first recollection was in the first recovery room where, still a little loopy from anesthesia, I told jokes and in other ways attempted to be funny for the nurse attending to me. I can't recall clearly, but if you know me, you will agree it must have been hilarity itself.
Then came the recovery room where two dear sisters were the first to visit me. And I am not saying one of them asked me about the pain medication I was given and received a prescription for, but about the time people started visiting me this was a constant concern for everyone.
"How are you doing, Phyllis?"
"How are you feeling, man?"
"Everything go okay?"
"Hey, what did they give you for pain?"
Evidently a necessary piece of information, judging by how quickly it was always asked. And by the reaction when I told them what it was.
"Oh, sweet, dude. That stuff is awesome!"
"Yeah, that's what I'm talking about."
"Cool, I had that one time and I still have some left. It rocks."
So people like pain pills apparently. But I don't.
Whatever they gave me (and sorry, all you drooling pain pill fiends out there, because I can't remember what it was) just made me feel weird. As I sat on my couch staring at the wall, I felt like I was sitting there and also hovering about two feet to the right and above me. And I didn't care about anything. I may not have known about anything. In any case, I hated how it made me feel, so I stopped taking it and dealt with the pain. Remember I told you I have a decent tolerance for pain.
And trust me, it hurt. Try breaking your nose sometime (I was told that, in essence, this had been done in order to perform the surgery) and see how you like it.
And so my recovery went.
(I recognize this post does not deal a great deal with our beloved doctor. More on him in the next post as I continue my recovery.)
Dr. Bester finally condescended to appear for one my appointments with him before surgery, and most (and if not most, then at the very least none) of my fears and concerns were allayed. I asked him too how my body would know to breathe through my newly-functional nose instead of my mouth as it had my whole life. His answer was so impressive I cannot now remember what he said.
Little should be said of the actual procedure in that I clearly was present but not aware of its progress and ultimate completion. My first recollection was in the first recovery room where, still a little loopy from anesthesia, I told jokes and in other ways attempted to be funny for the nurse attending to me. I can't recall clearly, but if you know me, you will agree it must have been hilarity itself.
Then came the recovery room where two dear sisters were the first to visit me. And I am not saying one of them asked me about the pain medication I was given and received a prescription for, but about the time people started visiting me this was a constant concern for everyone.
"How are you doing, Phyllis?"
"How are you feeling, man?"
"Everything go okay?"
"Hey, what did they give you for pain?"
Evidently a necessary piece of information, judging by how quickly it was always asked. And by the reaction when I told them what it was.
"Oh, sweet, dude. That stuff is awesome!"
"Yeah, that's what I'm talking about."
"Cool, I had that one time and I still have some left. It rocks."
So people like pain pills apparently. But I don't.
Whatever they gave me (and sorry, all you drooling pain pill fiends out there, because I can't remember what it was) just made me feel weird. As I sat on my couch staring at the wall, I felt like I was sitting there and also hovering about two feet to the right and above me. And I didn't care about anything. I may not have known about anything. In any case, I hated how it made me feel, so I stopped taking it and dealt with the pain. Remember I told you I have a decent tolerance for pain.
And trust me, it hurt. Try breaking your nose sometime (I was told that, in essence, this had been done in order to perform the surgery) and see how you like it.
And so my recovery went.
(I recognize this post does not deal a great deal with our beloved doctor. More on him in the next post as I continue my recovery.)
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