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Septoplasty? How Bad Can that Be?
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4/17/2007
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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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posted by Dusty at 2:29 PM |
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Inanimate Objects that Need to Die
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4/10/2007
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Much Thanks to Phil Collins for supplying me with another entry:
My Fucking Frigidaire Stove
Dear Stove - I apologize for kicking you in the lower pan drawer last night, but the sound of boot meeting cheap sheet metal was soothing to my mounting frustration. I am the official Cooker of Edible Objects in this house. I try to work with you on a nightly basis. My two main complaints are thus:
- Would it be at all possible to adhere to your knob markings and have a temperature between that of human skin and the center of a volcano? When I engage your dial to MEDIUM for the purpose of, according to my recipe, "sweat[ing] the onions so that they reduce in mass, yet do not brown," I expect to return to the kitchen after 10 minutes and actually see some sort of kinetic energy expended to increase your hotness. Instead you squat there, faux-retro graphics and bird shit colored, attempting to decipher your purpose in life. Twisting your knob to HIGH, and seeing no immediate danger, only lulls me into a false sense of security until I hear the agonizing screams of delicately sliced onion turning a most definitely incorrect brown.
- I live in a house that was built in 1914. Apparently, carpenters did not have levels back in those days and my house slopes eastward, toward the rising sun. I often cook with fluid-like substances called "oils" that tend to pool toward the lowest areas of the pan. It would have been quite a convenience had you included adjustable legs in the rear portion of your body. Shimming your ass-end with one half of my son's plastic Easter egg, evidentially his "favorite toy of all!!", worked for 15 minutes as the preponderous weight of your uselessness drove it mercilessly into the tile floor.
If you could try to improve on these two very simple, yet sanity saving features, I will try to ignore that I am only able to fit pans made for Munchkins on your cooking area. Thanks a bunch.
My Slow Ass Computer at Work or "Dude, I'm getting a rank ass piece of shit Dell!"
It is 2006. My job has devolved into a never-ending battle to reduce the world's population of trees. I expect the conglomeration of circuits that sits beneath my cluttered desk to anticipate my next move. When I click on the button labeled "Open," I don't mean that rhetorically. I realize that the network connecting my office to The Mommy Computer is run by anemic gerbils ambling through a deteriorating Habitrail™; however, I am tired of leaving to get a drink of water as you muddle through your 1's and 0's. Please do try to keep up. I am well versed in the techniques for destroying a hard drive (a minimum of effort and a 5 1/2" drop onto a tile floor).
Microsoft Word Spellcheck
While I agree that the weight of responsibility for editing my written drivel lies upon my narrow shoulders, I believe your sole purpose is to assist in this endeavor.
Case in point: "I realize that the network connecting my office and an The Mommy Computer is run my anemic gerbils ambling through..."
Does that make sense to you? Because it fucking does not make sense to me, nor to the rest of the rest of the world who passed the 1st grade in public school. If I am typing faster than I think, and repeat words or place them out of order, please don't patronize me. Color the offending sections bold red and declare, "Hey asswipe! Did you really mean to write like a Lithium Study control subject who was placed in the sugar pill placebo group?!?"
Microsoft Word
For the last time, if I wanted to change my font from 10-point Ariel to 14-point Times Roman, I would have taken the time to do it myself. When I stated that I wanted my Slow Ass Computer at Work to anticipate my next move, I meant that I wanted the tasks performed correctly. And no, I don't want the "Header" portion of my Roman numeral outline to be 12 sizes smaller than the fourth sub-section. Fuck, stop improvising already!
My RCA Lyra MP3 Player (May It Rot In Hell)
I go to the gym, not to mold my 168-pound body into a hard body Adonis, but rather to slow the inexorable descent into middle age paunch and Increased Risk of Heart Disease. It is hard enough to maintain a level of exercise exuberance without my RCA Lyra MP3 player inexplicably and consistently shutting off during The Distiller's "City of Angels." And yes, it had a new battery. I tried the old trick of shifting the battery, sweat burning my eyes and on the verge of falling off the elliptical trainer. Same result. I lost my eternal sweet soul waiting on hold for an RCA representative to pick up the phone. My e-mail to RCA went unanswered. Epinions.com finally provided the hint that sometimes, when the battery is too new (?!?), the RCA Lyra will shut off. The suggestion offered by one of the forum's complaintees was to install a slightly used battery. Where the fuck am I suppose to use one AAA battery? My world is AA and larger. I finally explored the inner workings of the RCA Lyra with my Vaughan 28-ounce framing hammer. The next day I received an e-mail from RCA - "We suggest you contact our help desk at 1-800-Really Crappy Accessories."
My Parents' Lo-Flo Toilets
The Eljer Ultra 1-G™ was invented in 1984 by a bunny humping forest elf who existed solely on photosynthesis and distilled water, thus expelling waste the size of an atom. Eljer proudly proclaims that the Eljer Ultra 1-G™ toilet was introduced "10 years before government regulations." Unfortunately for Eljer, in 1993 the Government opted for Decrease Water Consumption over the Republican sponsored Increase The Number Of Flushes It Takes To Make A Single Ply Tissue Disappear From View. These toilets were not meant for toddlers with the digestive speed of a glacier. I long for the industrial-grade small cat sucking power of my old high school toilet.
Phil "I don't play the fucking drums" Collins
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posted by Dusty at 4:53 PM |
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What the Hell is Wrong with People?
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4/04/2007
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This happened two years ago, and I recently had a series of similar experiences that started me writing. Halfway through, I realied that I was essentially re-writing the same story-
I'm leaving my office on Saturday, sitting at a busy intersection on piedmont road. 4 lanes 40 mph busy. Across from me is the entrance to a big strip mall, and it is a divided entrance. Standing on the middle island with a cane is a blind and quite disoriented man in his late twenties. The opposite light turns green, and as the cars start to go by, he begins walking out in the intersection, thinking he is on a crosswalk. People slow down and go annoyedly around him, and by now I'm out of my car thinking "Why the fuck is no one DOING anything? If Jesus sees this, he's going to be pissed." I figured I had a better chance in traffic than he did (having fully operational peepers and all), so I went out in the middle of the intersection and irritated a bunch of people by making them stop. The poor guy was scared having just realized that he was in an active intersection. I could feel the tension leave him when I touched his shoulder and asked him where he needed to go. Bus stop across the street? No problem, my man.
Here's the part that makes me want to cry for some of these selfish jackwipes who breathe my air but can't be legally killed in order to make life easier for the smart people- We're walking across this intersection and someone actually honked their horn at us for impeding their precious progress. He jumped, thinking we were milliseconds from being turned into pizza toppings, and I reassured him while being glad he could not see me, because I was using my free hand to make a pointed gesture directly into a windshield not six feet from me. Seriously probably the best middle finger I have ever delivered- straight arm, elbow locked, blazing glare filled with the kind of energy you can smell, no question about it middle finger that will make you call your dad and ask him what to do. That's some hard core multi-tasking. If that guy had the nuts to get out of his car, the rest of his day would have been dedicated to figuring out how to walk with a collapsible walking cane up his ass, and I would have been shopping for a new tappy stick for my friend because he wouldn't want that one back.
I thought this was Atlanta, not New freekin' York.
But wait, there's more.
I got him to the bus stop and now had to return to my car, which was across a lane of moving traffic with the door still open. Of all the people who saw what happened, do you think anyone stopped to let me get back to my car? Not unless "stop" now means "continue along your retarded path so you can get your quarter pounder and milkshake before your appearance as grand marshal of the moron parade". My light is green now and my car is sitting at the front of the line. When I got back to it, the girl behind me honked her horn too. This time I didn't flip anyone off. I stopped and stared at her for a long five seconds as the light poetically went from green to yellow to red behind me (gave me time to count to ten before I did anything violent. My only witness would have been a blind guy, so I thought better of it) and wondered what life must be like for people who are too damned stupid to appreciate what's happening around them. It was a stare that I hope communicated my frustration and a certain degree of pity.
Slow the hell down and understand that there are times when it doesn't matter where you are going or how soon you need to be there.
Gosh.
Dusty
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posted by Dusty at 9:38 AM |
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