My nose has been straight for over two months. Enough time for the memory of surgery to fade, but even after day one or day six, I could say with truth that it was worth it.
I now sleep with my mouth closed for the first time in my life. People have noticed that my color is better. I have unusual clarity of mind. I didn't hyperventilate on my last uphill hike. All that I had hoped for and more.
For anyone who would like the details, or is considering the same surgery, you'll see the full accounting below.
Pre-op, terror.
All was okay until the kind nurse started plugging vials of clear liquid in to my IV.
"This one usually causes some
anxiety and unfortunately we can't give you the 'feel good' stuff until the surgeon arrives."
Not some anxiety, but the worst kind of terror I have ever felt in my life. I felt
trapped in my small curtained room, stupid that I had planned the torture I was about to experience. I considered pulling out the IV and running out the door. And I know how to get through most panic. I survived an MRI un-medicated by going to a happy place in my mind (Central Park c. 1998). And did I mention that I'm claustrophobic? But even the happy place didn't work. When the nurse checked on me, she must have known I was about to bail. We walked the halls, her at my elbow, my IV bag in her hand. The surgeon arrived to answer any questions (I had none) and to confirm I understood she was doing a septoplasty. Between the nurses and doctors, I confirmed this no less than seven times. Apparently there are some mix ups with surgery? Finally I was wheeled through the halls to the operating room, pumped with the "feel good" drugs finally, then I scooted my body
from the gurney to the table, and goodbye.
Waking up, pleasant.
Two kind voices in my head, then faces. "Do
you want me to get your husband?"
"Yes."
Drive home, cold.
Doctor's don't write prescriptions for the painkillers in advance, so instead of bringing me home and leaving again, I told Joe to drive straight to the pharmacy. When I got in the house and settled in bed, there was a white hot flush that lasted only a minute. Then the shivering began, so I wrapped up and laid back in my nest of pillows and blankets.
Day one, schedule.
My iPhone alarm was set in four hour increments for the next 48 hours. I dutifully took my Percocet, antibiotics, and ate a few saltines. Plus as much water as I could remember to drink throughout. Propped up on pillows behind and on the side, I am upright and try to sleep. I think I sleep. No pain. Not too much swelling. Felt pretty good. Mustache bandage on for most of the day.
Day two, shower, hallelujah.
Lots of TV, bored, bored, bored.
Packing hung down in the back of my throat, gross. More swelling. Figured I would get some bruising under my eyes. Felt like a bad head cold. Mustache bandage on for just a bit of the
day. No air flow through my nose, meant the pressure in my ears built up with every swallow.
Day four, packing is not actually packing in the back of my throat.
Turns out the anesthesiologist tore a part of my uvula (the little dangly thing in the back of your throat) with the breathing tube and it was hanging in the back of my throat causing some mild choking and much irritation. My surgeon plucked off the tissue in a breeze and sent us home. The pain set in right away. Searing pain that was not relieved by Percocet. Even every four hours. Pain all the time, no sleep, no rest.
Day five & six, pain and boredom.
Plus gargling with salt water, flushing my nose with saline, eating nothing, not even saltines. Meds were wreaking havoc on stomach. Three full seasons of The Office, two seasons of Parenthood, and the first season of Downton Abbey. Netflix I love you.
Day seven, splints out.
Miracle of miracles to breath clear. Because I do not close my eyes or look away for shots or blood draws, I watched through crossed eyes down at my nose as she pulled out the splints that were unbelievable large and disgusting. A putrid color I have never seen before and hope to never see again. The cold east county air burned my nose on the walk to the car, but I was breathing.
Day eight, try to return to work.
Bad idea. My morning meeting was a foggy fuzz. I had been off pain killers, for a few days, but going out in public pointed that I was not yet ready for conversation. Plus my stomach revolted from the five bottles of pills I took and the six vials pumped through my IV.
Day sixty-eight, bone spurs.
I can fully breathe and that's still the most amazing thing in the world. But my new straight nose is lumpy with bone spurs and cartilage gone wild. In two weeks, the surgeon will go in with a rasp to shave it down straight. Just through my skin, with some numbing but no painkillers or anesthesia or IVs. Bone spurs are a possible complication to this kind of surgery. Oh well. I can breathe.
Before
After
I had resisted putting structure to my writing. I had thought it should grow organically, flow at will. I never saw myself as rigid or someone who could not
function without structure. More
typically, I see myself as a loosey-goosey, go with the flow, flexible kind of
person. But maybe that’s just what I
tell myself?
