by Phyllis
I mentioned in the previous post that I had trouble stopping the bleeding in my nose after the stents were taken out.
I even tried to rush back to work while this was still an issue. I had received the assignment to support a new site for the upcoming school year, and I wanted to be there for the meeting where I could meet and introduce myself to everyone. And I think they were all curious about their new IT guy as well. The principal gave me a few minutes to speak in front of the staff. I spent it constantly sniffing and nervously dabbing the blood dripping from my nose. I am sure they were very impressed.
After a couple more days, the bleeding had not improved and we decided we had to call the doctor. I was a little scared, because it was a Saturday, and I wondered if we would get a hold of him. To my complete surprise Dr. Bester returned our call, listened to our concerns and...dramatic pause required here...told us to come down and meet us at his office! On a Saturday! What?!?? But thanks, Dr. Bester. I'm impressed.
MLB and I jumped in our car and drove downtown to his office. We parked in the back in compliance with his instructions, as he would let us in the back door. As we started to get out, we could see one car in the parking garage below us--a woman smoking in the passenger seat with an older gentleman in the driver's seat. We soon realized we recognized the woman: it was Susie, Dr. Bester's gravelly-voiced assistant. And sure enough, the man was the doctor himself. It is important to know, however, that neither one of them saw us.
We got to the rear door of his office and soon he showed up (by himself) to let us in. Up the stairs and down the hall and we were soon in his office, sitting in the same little room we had once occupied before. Dr. Bester examined me for a minute, gave me a bunch of gauze and tape, and we stepped in to the hall while he looked through some cabinets for something.
While we stood there, me looking at MLB, and MLB looking at him, he suddenly asked her, "Who is THAT?" as he looked past us both down the hall. We turned to look. "It's Susie," MLB responded.
"Well, what is SHE doing here?" he asked. A confused MLB answered "I dont know," and the two of us looked at each other, wondering at the situation. I mean, it was clear now he was a little nervous, trying to confuse us or throw us off, but of course he didn't know we had already seen them together. It didn't work. I thought to myself, 'Seriously, Doc? That's how you're going to play that? Pretend you don't know who it is?'
Maybe he could tell it wasn't working, because now he was in full crisis mode, and he began to speak quickly and shove armfuls of medicine samples of various kinds from his cabinet into a bag for me. Decongestants, antihistamines, allergy medicines, whatever he could find. And into the bag it went.
As we walked out, he stayed at the cabinet to organize it and close up. We said hello to Susie as she was opening drawers in the main office. We told her what he had said. She looked at us and laughed. "He knows why I'm here. I came with him! We stopped by to get some money. We are going to the rodeo."
We smiled and continued out, but heard her ask him one last question before we left.
"Do you want me to just get this out of petty cash?"
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Dr. Bester, part 6
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.
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.
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.)
Monday, September 28, 2009
Dr. Bester, part 3
by Phyllis
I mentioned before that inasmuch as my workspace was in downtown Boise, it was sort of nice Dr. Bester's office was down there too, so I could "shoot over for a quick appointment and get back to work." But it never happened that way. Dr. Bester's office, in fact, helped me set personal records for time waiting in a doctor's office.
I know part of going to the doctor is waiting. I have blogged previously about it and how precious a doctor's time is when you finally see him. Dr. Bester, however, took the cake (if ever there were a cake to take). I never once waited for less than an hour to get in that little room with all the brochures. And once I waited a full two hours. No lie.
Let me digress for a minute to ask you an important question: have you ever known a meathead? Think about it. What is a meathead you ask? I think you have a good idea, but you could use as a template some of those mouth-breathers (can I of all people use that term?) you see on weekends offering witty insight and commentary about football games. Yes, like Howie Long. Ok, back to the story.
Once I got in that little room, most of the time a meathead would come to see me instead of Dr. Bester. It was Dr. Bester's physician's assistant. And seriously, the first word that came to my mind when he first burst through the door was meat. And then head. With his baseball glove hands and torso exploding out from his overly tight lab coat, he blabbered and I pretended to listen. I was waiting for Dr. Bester so I could ask some questions. The date for the surgery was fast approaching, I knew, and I had never done anything like this before. But no. "All right!" Meathead burped. "See you in a couple weeks!"
After two or three appointments like this, I mentioned to the nurse on my way out that the surgery was in 10 days and I still didn't know what Dr. Bester wanted me to do about the prescription blood thinner I take every day, and had several questions still. I had by then asked them all of Meatface but was not satisfied with the answers.
"I have breathed through my mouth all my life. How will my body know to start breathing through my nose?" I wondered.
"It just will."
"And will this help my snoring?"
"Oh, man!" Beefsteak said. "This will be so awesome. Think about it. No more snoring, no more waking up with your mouth all dry and tasting awful. Waking up refreshed. This is gonna be great!"
I seasoned everything this rump roast told me with a healthy amount of salt.
I mentioned before that inasmuch as my workspace was in downtown Boise, it was sort of nice Dr. Bester's office was down there too, so I could "shoot over for a quick appointment and get back to work." But it never happened that way. Dr. Bester's office, in fact, helped me set personal records for time waiting in a doctor's office.
I know part of going to the doctor is waiting. I have blogged previously about it and how precious a doctor's time is when you finally see him. Dr. Bester, however, took the cake (if ever there were a cake to take). I never once waited for less than an hour to get in that little room with all the brochures. And once I waited a full two hours. No lie.
Let me digress for a minute to ask you an important question: have you ever known a meathead? Think about it. What is a meathead you ask? I think you have a good idea, but you could use as a template some of those mouth-breathers (can I of all people use that term?) you see on weekends offering witty insight and commentary about football games. Yes, like Howie Long. Ok, back to the story.
Once I got in that little room, most of the time a meathead would come to see me instead of Dr. Bester. It was Dr. Bester's physician's assistant. And seriously, the first word that came to my mind when he first burst through the door was meat. And then head. With his baseball glove hands and torso exploding out from his overly tight lab coat, he blabbered and I pretended to listen. I was waiting for Dr. Bester so I could ask some questions. The date for the surgery was fast approaching, I knew, and I had never done anything like this before. But no. "All right!" Meathead burped. "See you in a couple weeks!"
After two or three appointments like this, I mentioned to the nurse on my way out that the surgery was in 10 days and I still didn't know what Dr. Bester wanted me to do about the prescription blood thinner I take every day, and had several questions still. I had by then asked them all of Meatface but was not satisfied with the answers.
"I have breathed through my mouth all my life. How will my body know to start breathing through my nose?" I wondered.
"It just will."
"And will this help my snoring?"
"Oh, man!" Beefsteak said. "This will be so awesome. Think about it. No more snoring, no more waking up with your mouth all dry and tasting awful. Waking up refreshed. This is gonna be great!"
I seasoned everything this rump roast told me with a healthy amount of salt.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Dr. Bester, part 2
by Phyllis
Trust me, it is a real drag not to be able to breathe properly through your nose.
I can breathe through my nose, sure, but if I close my mouth and try to focus on breathing ONLY through my nose, I feel claustrophobic and panicky and scared like I'm drowning within about a minute or so. It is NOT cool.
It used to be this was no big deal. You know, back when I didn't know any better, wasn't paying attention to how I was breathing, back when I was a kid. For a while I didn't get it when fellow classmates would tease me for sitting there with my mouth gaping open. I knew even then it wasn't gaping, but it was open, as it was a much more successful vehicle for the intake of my precious oxygen.
But as I got older and learned nearly everyone else breathes through the nose, it started to bother me. Why can't I do this? What's wrong with me? So I finally decided to do something about it when Dr. Bester said he could fix my deviated septum and that this would help me breathe through my nose. I thought the whole idea was pretty awesome.
I started making plans and appointments with Dr. Bester now in preparation for surgery. He sent me off to get some tests done and they showed that my sinuses were all very full, congested, loaded, whatever you want. (That part I believe, by the by, since it possibly provides answers to years of congestion, ear infections, lots of boogers and earwax, and all that glamorous stuff.) So while he was fixing my deviated septum, he would be performing what he called a "roto rooter job" on my sinuses. Great, let's get it all done, I thought.
Trust me, it is a real drag not to be able to breathe properly through your nose.
I can breathe through my nose, sure, but if I close my mouth and try to focus on breathing ONLY through my nose, I feel claustrophobic and panicky and scared like I'm drowning within about a minute or so. It is NOT cool.
It used to be this was no big deal. You know, back when I didn't know any better, wasn't paying attention to how I was breathing, back when I was a kid. For a while I didn't get it when fellow classmates would tease me for sitting there with my mouth gaping open. I knew even then it wasn't gaping, but it was open, as it was a much more successful vehicle for the intake of my precious oxygen.
But as I got older and learned nearly everyone else breathes through the nose, it started to bother me. Why can't I do this? What's wrong with me? So I finally decided to do something about it when Dr. Bester said he could fix my deviated septum and that this would help me breathe through my nose. I thought the whole idea was pretty awesome.
I started making plans and appointments with Dr. Bester now in preparation for surgery. He sent me off to get some tests done and they showed that my sinuses were all very full, congested, loaded, whatever you want. (That part I believe, by the by, since it possibly provides answers to years of congestion, ear infections, lots of boogers and earwax, and all that glamorous stuff.) So while he was fixing my deviated septum, he would be performing what he called a "roto rooter job" on my sinuses. Great, let's get it all done, I thought.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Dr. Bester, part 1
by Phyllis
I admit I am copying someone a little in writing a post of this sort, but that should be okay with everyone. After all, I wouldn't have made it through junior high, high school, and college without cheating consistently. Others spent their time and effort reading and studying; I spent mine getting better at passing off the work of others as my own. Very rewarding stuff.
Anyway...Dr. Bester, yeah. That isn't his real name, you know, although you could figure out what it is if you know some of my tricks for the names I give people. Maybe you don't know my tricks, and I certainly can't reveal them. But a few seem to me a little transparent. In any case, let's talk about Dr. Bester.
Dr. Bester was (is?) an ear/nose/throat/cosmetic surgery/whatever-procedure-he-wants-to-do doctor. Of course I didn't know that many years ago when I had a slight pain in my ears and looked up an otolaryngologist with an office close to my work space in downtown Boise. I wanted to be able to shoot over for a quick appointment and get back to work.
So, as I said, after several days of what I thought was moderate pain in my ears, I set up the appointment. Dr. Bester came in, asked me a few questions, and then peered in my ears. I could tell he stifled a reaction, and looked at him quizzingly. "You aren't in pain?" he asked. I said it hurt a little. "Because you have quite an infection in there. I am amazed you are so stoic about it." I always knew I was tough.
He wrote a prescription, and wondered if I had any other questions. "Yes. How come I have never been able to breathe out of my nose?" Dr. Bester took a quick look up my nose and at my palate and told me I had a deviated septum. He could fix that.
I thought about that as I left.
I admit I am copying someone a little in writing a post of this sort, but that should be okay with everyone. After all, I wouldn't have made it through junior high, high school, and college without cheating consistently. Others spent their time and effort reading and studying; I spent mine getting better at passing off the work of others as my own. Very rewarding stuff.
Anyway...Dr. Bester, yeah. That isn't his real name, you know, although you could figure out what it is if you know some of my tricks for the names I give people. Maybe you don't know my tricks, and I certainly can't reveal them. But a few seem to me a little transparent. In any case, let's talk about Dr. Bester.
Dr. Bester was (is?) an ear/nose/throat/cosmetic surgery/whatever-procedure-he-wants-to-do doctor. Of course I didn't know that many years ago when I had a slight pain in my ears and looked up an otolaryngologist with an office close to my work space in downtown Boise. I wanted to be able to shoot over for a quick appointment and get back to work.
So, as I said, after several days of what I thought was moderate pain in my ears, I set up the appointment. Dr. Bester came in, asked me a few questions, and then peered in my ears. I could tell he stifled a reaction, and looked at him quizzingly. "You aren't in pain?" he asked. I said it hurt a little. "Because you have quite an infection in there. I am amazed you are so stoic about it." I always knew I was tough.
He wrote a prescription, and wondered if I had any other questions. "Yes. How come I have never been able to breathe out of my nose?" Dr. Bester took a quick look up my nose and at my palate and told me I had a deviated septum. He could fix that.
I thought about that as I left.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)