Congratulations to the New Orleans Saints for winning the Super Bowl. Surely people are celebrating the victory in fairly tame fashion down there in the Big Easy.
Yes, good for New Orleans. The franchise wins its first Super Bowl. And in the wake of the recent flooding and destruction there, the Saints had sort of become "America's Team," replacing the Dallas Cowboys, as millions of football fans and Americans rooted for something positive to happen for this city.
Not that I was rooting for them. Or for the Colts, either. Well, maybe. But I mostly didn't care. I would have rather seen the Colts playing the Vikings, or the Saints playing the Jets. Then I could have rooted for either one. But Colts vs. Saints didn't do a lot for me. I did enjoy the game, though, and am happy for the Saints after their win.
But they must have realized at half-time they were outmatched and had no shot of winning. They were the little upstart team nobody gave a chance to win. The Colts were better. The Colts knew it. The Saints knew it. Everyone knew it. Duh!
And being thus outclassed on the field, they had to resort to trickery. That is, you know, what inferior teams do when they know they can't win. Teams who have no business being there in the first place. They run trick plays. Plays you don't see very often, gimmicks, misdirection, deception. They don't play straight up football.
An on-side kick? Are you serious? Come on, Saints! Just line up and see who is better, faster, stronger. None of these gimmick and gadget plays. It's just a desperate way to change the momentum of the game against a better team.
The Colts don't use misdirection and deception. Peyton Manning is terrible at disguising what play they are running, and he is simply awful at the play-action pass.
So, congratulations again, Saints. Enjoy the victory. Too bad it was a fluke, though, and you could never beat them again.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Recycled
This happened when he was four years old.
MLB and I were making dinner when our youngest son came in the kitchen and got the egg slicer out of the drawer and started playing with it. The game was to open and close it rapidly and repeatedly.
"Dearest son of mine!" I exclaimed. "It is my greatest wish that you stop playing with that!"
It may indeed be possible that I was neither that tender nor that polite in this request. The words "Hey!" and "Don't!" probably found themselves uttered, if the truth must be known. But I did not want him to hurt himself (or damage the device).
In any case, he did not like what he had heard, so he put the egg slicer back and slammed the drawer shut. And he stormed out of the kitchen into the other room, but stopped and turned around so he could stand there and glare at me.
"Just trying to make sure you are safe, buddy!" I said this as I returned to help with dinner again, but I could tell by the scowl on his face that he was not done with me yet.
Nearly three minutes passed before I looked up from what I was doing to glance in the other room again. He was still there and had evidently thought of what he wanted to say before running out:
"You have a fat tummy!"
MLB and I were making dinner when our youngest son came in the kitchen and got the egg slicer out of the drawer and started playing with it. The game was to open and close it rapidly and repeatedly.
"Dearest son of mine!" I exclaimed. "It is my greatest wish that you stop playing with that!"
It may indeed be possible that I was neither that tender nor that polite in this request. The words "Hey!" and "Don't!" probably found themselves uttered, if the truth must be known. But I did not want him to hurt himself (or damage the device).
In any case, he did not like what he had heard, so he put the egg slicer back and slammed the drawer shut. And he stormed out of the kitchen into the other room, but stopped and turned around so he could stand there and glare at me.
"Just trying to make sure you are safe, buddy!" I said this as I returned to help with dinner again, but I could tell by the scowl on his face that he was not done with me yet.
Nearly three minutes passed before I looked up from what I was doing to glance in the other room again. He was still there and had evidently thought of what he wanted to say before running out:
"You have a fat tummy!"
Friday, January 8, 2010
Dr. Bester - The End?
If you are a devoted and loyal reader of this blog (and there must be hundreds, possibly thousands of you), you may have wondered if after the last post the story was over. You are confused, thinking surely there is more to come, you will hear from me again. But then you think, wow, a lot of time has passed, and nothing. And my silence makes you start to think there could be nothing more to say. Especially after so long a break, right? So you think maybe that's it, we're through, no more. Honestly, you would be fine if you don't hear from me. In fact, you might hope you never do.
In that way you are like me. And the following story tells why:
The bills started coming after my many office visits, a stay at St. Al's, and the procedure done by the good doctor himself. And like most people I could not pay them all off at once. I did make sure to pay the hospital, the anesthesiologist, and so forth, but deliberately was slow in paying Dr. Bester. The amount was large (to me) and as time passed and I could see no improvement in my breathing (and remembering that great day in his office getting the stents out), I resented paying him.
So I paid a little at a time until I owed $522.35. The next month I wrote him a check for $22.35 and said to myself that's it. No more. Keep sending me the statements, buddy. I owe you five hundred bucks but I won't be paying soon. I determined (that determination which it seems sometimes erodes once the bills go to collections) not to pay him.
And to my great surprise, it worked! I know what you are thinking. A few months? A year? Well, since that time, I have never gotten another statement from Dr. Bester. It has now been over five years since I had the surgery.
Do you think you know why? Perhaps Dr. Bester fears us, as we have first hand knowledge of his carrying on with his nurse. Or maybe his billing system got screwed up or he lost our records. He might have felt really awful after reading MLB's letter to him in which she kindly and politely described her frustration from seeing that not only had the procedure failed to help me breathe successfully through my nose, but that my snoring (which previously had happened only when I would sleep on my back) was louder and happened irrespective of my sleeping position. Oh, wait, she wrote that letter but never sent it.
Well, I think I know why. I nosed around the interweb and it seems my man has been suspended by the Gem State's board of medicine. Why, you ask? Oh, just the result of (perhaps among other things) "complaints from various patients and the Board's own investigation regarding Respondent's training and ability to perform cosmetic or plastic surgery procedures and other issues." I don't know if getting your septum undeviated or getting a "roto-rooter job" (his words) on your sinuses is cosmetic surgery, so I will gladly throw my experience in the pile of "other issues."
So is it the end? I doubt it. Once that suspension is lifted, I expect the statements to start coming in the mail again. Maybe he will write it off if I ask him to contribute to my blog.
In that way you are like me. And the following story tells why:
The bills started coming after my many office visits, a stay at St. Al's, and the procedure done by the good doctor himself. And like most people I could not pay them all off at once. I did make sure to pay the hospital, the anesthesiologist, and so forth, but deliberately was slow in paying Dr. Bester. The amount was large (to me) and as time passed and I could see no improvement in my breathing (and remembering that great day in his office getting the stents out), I resented paying him.
So I paid a little at a time until I owed $522.35. The next month I wrote him a check for $22.35 and said to myself that's it. No more. Keep sending me the statements, buddy. I owe you five hundred bucks but I won't be paying soon. I determined (that determination which it seems sometimes erodes once the bills go to collections) not to pay him.
And to my great surprise, it worked! I know what you are thinking. A few months? A year? Well, since that time, I have never gotten another statement from Dr. Bester. It has now been over five years since I had the surgery.
Do you think you know why? Perhaps Dr. Bester fears us, as we have first hand knowledge of his carrying on with his nurse. Or maybe his billing system got screwed up or he lost our records. He might have felt really awful after reading MLB's letter to him in which she kindly and politely described her frustration from seeing that not only had the procedure failed to help me breathe successfully through my nose, but that my snoring (which previously had happened only when I would sleep on my back) was louder and happened irrespective of my sleeping position. Oh, wait, she wrote that letter but never sent it.
Well, I think I know why. I nosed around the interweb and it seems my man has been suspended by the Gem State's board of medicine. Why, you ask? Oh, just the result of (perhaps among other things) "complaints from various patients and the Board's own investigation regarding Respondent's training and ability to perform cosmetic or plastic surgery procedures and other issues." I don't know if getting your septum undeviated or getting a "roto-rooter job" (his words) on your sinuses is cosmetic surgery, so I will gladly throw my experience in the pile of "other issues."
So is it the end? I doubt it. Once that suspension is lifted, I expect the statements to start coming in the mail again. Maybe he will write it off if I ask him to contribute to my blog.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Dr. Bester, part 7
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?"
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?"
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.)
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