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.