I Love me some Phil Collins. You do too. Admit it.
Septoplasty - sep-to-plas-ty, n. From the Latin, of course, Septo -"nose" and Plasty - "to rend asunder."
After years of suffering from 45-day bouts of sinus infections every spring and autumn, I decided to make an appointment with an Ear, Nose & Throat guy. I was tired of getting the crap beat out of me twice a year, and worried that repeat exposure to multiple antibiotics would reduce their effectiveness against the Coughing Up Bloody Froth pandemic due this winter. The doctor took a gander up my shnoz and declared that I was a perfect candidate for a septoplasty.
"Huh, really? What's that?" I asked, innocent lamb to the slaughter.
"It's a minimally invasive procedure to correct your deviated septum and reduce your turbinates. You'll breathe a lot easier. The septoplasty is an outpatient procedure performed with minimal discomfort."
Do you ever wonder where Turkish prison guards go when they retire? They come to the United States and become ENT doctors. I agreed to undergo the surgery on a Monday. The following is my official Septoplasty Timeline.
Sunday 11:59pm - The pre-op orders dictated that have nothing to eat or drink after midnight before the day of surgery. Given that I curl into a quivering fetal position if I miss a meal, I fortify my body's food stores with two 32-ounce glasses of water, a fried egg sandwich, kim chee, leftover pizza, and an apple.
Monday 8:04am - Waiting in my temporary hospital room, wearing the ubiquitous striped hospital gown, I debate whether to "Go Commando" as ordered by the Pre-Op nurse. I opt for donning my boxers, as this makes me feel a little less "vulnerable." I should note that the last time I had surgery I was 5 years old and hospitals freak me the fuck out.
8:10am - A pre-op nurse gives me a pill to reduce stomach acid and a pill to reduce nausea. I worry that they know about the fried egg sandwich and kim chee.
8:14am - The pre-op nurse returns to give me some kind of nasal spray that smells like YMCA pool water.
8:23am - A different pre-op nurse, very pretty, installs an IV in my hand. I've had tattoos that hurt way worse than this. I'm feeling pretty cocky now. Hell, how bad can this be? I lay back to watch Discovery channel on TV. It's a show about bugs and how they kill each other.
8:52am - Two nurses arrive pushing a rolling bed: my ride to the Operating Room. I tell them I can walk, but they insist that I climb aboard. Sensation of rolling through the hospital, propelled by two nurses, is somewhat relaxing. I may have to do this again sometime soon.
8:54am - We enter the Operating Room. It is as white as white can be. If you took an albino Easter bunny, cut its throat and bled it dry, then threw it in a tub of Clorox bleach, you could not make it as white as that Operating Room. Everyone is wearing masks and clinking sharp shiny objects. The sound is somewhat unnerving, like finding yourself in a real-life version of the movie, Saw. I spy my ENT doctor and he asks me how I am doing. He says, "So Mr. Collins, are you ready for your sex change operation?" I'm pretty sure he is kidding, but the mask covers his smile. My anesthesiologist asks me how high I think I can count after he injects "the liquid six-pack" into my IV. I'm sure I tried to answer him.
While we pause for station identification I'd like to re-define some commonly used terms regarding a septoplasty. Terms my retired Turkish prison guard/doctor used during our pleasant little chat in his office weeks earlier:
Minimally Invasive - if you feel that chucking a half-inch Forstner bit into an 18-volt cordless DeWalt drill and enlarging the urine hole of your penis is "minimally invasive," then a septoplasty should be fluffy vanilla cupcakes to you.
Correct Your Deviated Septum - it sounds so benign doesn't it? Correcting-something. Like a wee child who has made a mistake on her algebra homework and needs guidance. Correcting Your Deviated Septum involves purposely re-breaking your nose in three pieces, without the numbing benefit of 8 pints of Guinness, 2 shots of whiskey, and a glorious bar fight to recount with your friends years from now, all of which contributed to your deviated septum in the first place.
Reduce Turbinates - my ENT doctor told me he was going to use radio frequency current to "coagulate the material under the mucosa." I think the mini-microwave was broken that morning so he used a 4" Bosch grinder with 80-grit sandpaper instead.
I wake up from a dream about my job. Opening my crusty eyes I see that I am in a large Civil War-era surgical tent, surrounded by fellow warriors, all groaning with pain. There is a pile of severed limbs in the corner and the sound of battle is close. I try to say, "Wow, that was fast" but can't, as my nose is packed with a queen-sized bed and there are 16-ounces of coagulating blood blocking my throat. After I violently regurgitate the glob of hemoglobin forcefully across the room, the pre-occupied Recovery Room Nurse pays attention to my plight, "Hey! We got a Choker here!"
The next 3 hours are spent in a haze of pain, discomfort, and oozing blood. Then an angel on wings of silver gossamer enters my hospital room, contrails of soft light trickling from her aura. There is nothing like feeling the cool fingertips of your beautiful wife stroking your forehead to relieve the trauma of surgery.
"Grrrrhgll shremmfull humpto"
"What?"
"Grrhglll..." [hack hack. spit] "I love you"
"Shut up and lay back you fool, you're oozing blood out your nose"
My wife, suspecting this may be the only instance in this lifetime I refuse sex, asks me if I want to get my freak on right then and there.
"God you're sexy!"
[My right eyebrow, the only part of me that doesn't hurt, rises questioningly]
"I mean it...I'm getting hot looking at you! Do you want me to get naked and crawl in next to you?"
"Yeeeessssss"
"Lay back you idiot, I'm only kidding"
I am given Hydrocodone for the pain. Printed on the side of the bottle, in bold 12-point Ariel font letters, are the words "May Cause Dizziness." It should have said, "May Cause You to Dry Heave Continuously for the Next 36-Hours Until You Forcefully Eject Your Testicles From Your Raw Throat."
[Lying on my couch, "blood catcher" roll of gauze taped to my nose, clutching a cold green metal wastebasket]
1:30pm - thinking about not throwing up.
1:31pm - thinking about not throwing up.
1:32pm - thinking about not throwing up.
1:33pm - thinking about not throwing up.
1:34pm - thinking about not throwing up.
1:35pm - thinking about not throwing up.
1:36pm - thinking about Salma Hayek writhing naked above me, her tawny loins damp with desire. We are in a meadow with the sound of a gently burbling brook in the background. Salma Hayek is throwing up.
1:37pm - thinking about not throwing up.
Tuesday 3:00pm - You know when you are surfing and you accidentally inhale a baby puffer fish? It grows larger over the years, feeding on your sinus emittings, until finally one day something startles it and it blows itself up to twice its size, needle sharp spines digging into your flesh. That is post-operative nasal packing. Thirty-six hours after installing eighteen cubic yards of fabric up my air holes, it is finally time to remove the blockage.
When preparing their dead for embalming, ancient Egyptians used long hooks to remove the brain from the corpse. I notice the similarity in the tool that my ENT doctor is fiddling with as he wraps a towel around my chest and dons a full-face splashguard, the kind you see on hazardous chemical workers after a toxic spill.
"So Mr. Collins, how are we feeling today?"
"Packing sucks"
"Well, we're going to pull that right out of there in no time. I just need you to think of something pleasant for the next 5-seconds or so, as this may be a bit uncomfortable."
Remembering my doctor's tendencies for gross understatement, I grab the sides of the medical chair. He pulls and pulls and pulls and finally deposits a mass of sodden bed sheets and a cow fetus on the little medical tray the nurse is holding.
Gasping for air, "Oh my God! Doc, is that my brain?"
"Ha Ha Ha! ...no Mr. Collins, I assure you your brain is still intact."
It is now ten days since the surgery. Prior to my adventure I had informed my employees that I would be back into work, "by Wednesday, no problem." In reality I spent the entire week on the couch consuming massive doses of Tylenol, way exceeding the limits of responsible pain management, and watching violent movies. I watched the entire trilogy of Lord of the Rings in one day and have found some very valid methods to attracting women within the genius that is Tolkein (but that is another post). The trauma of destroying my shnoz, "so that we can build it back up again", has faded to a fond memory, and I may consider surgically enlarging the passageways of my other orifices. Someday...
 Phil "I don't play the fucking drums" Collins
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14 Comments:
I hope your recovery is a quick one Phil. Good Luck.
My schnoz is fine, thank you!
=)
But that was mainly due to the fact that I had my Uvula removed and some of the tissue in my throat trimmed back at the same time. The pain in my throat was so severe that I didn't even notice the pain in my nose. So when people ask me about my septoplasty, I tell them it was a peice of cake - nearly painless.
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