ENT: The Nose Out Of Joint Saga XI
ENT: The Nose Out Of Joint Saga XI
On Sunday morning, the nasal packing has changed its attitude. The alien slugs have awakened hungry. They have ransacked my skull for tasty brains, leaving a trail of devastation, and found nothing. Now, their mood is becoming increasingly ugly.
Getting everything in Nose World good and wet in the shower doesn’t change the feeling. They’re spinning in there like fine emery cloth, hollowing out my unprotected inner septum. I really want them out now. I want to run around flailing my arms, screaming, “Get them off! Get them off!”
And there’s distasteful stuff that’s occasionally runs down the back of my throat. Although I can’t smell or taste, I know it’s bad. I get a chill thinking that my redevelopment zone is now hosting virulent (and stunningly bad-smelling) bacteria. This is how heart infections happen. I’ve read about this, and I know that preventative antibiotics won’t help to keep me from getting endocarditis.
I am trying to convince myself that it’s different if I’m doing a full course of antibiotics instead of a single dose. I’m not very good at it. I don’t really believe me. I don’t know if it’s because I’m not very convincing, or because I’m too stubborn to believe myself. I start arguing with myself about which of these is my problem, and again conclude that I should spend more time in between the narcotic pain pills.
My plan to breeze boldly through these days of recovery has been overthrown. I’m in full retreat. I try every device to amuse myself, desperate to pass the time. I try several times to go to the computer, and find myself dozed off, hanging over the keyboard twice. It uses up time, but makes my neck hurt. The key is to get through this day. Then there’ll only be one day left. Maybe none: I might be able to talk him into seeing me Monday.
Now I’m truly wretched. My new nose-holes stink so badly that I am an outcast, unbearable even to my loved ones. Even the dog, who rolls in dead things in the yard, cast me a final, pitying look this morning and deserted her chairside post for less repugnant company.
I arrange to use the kitchen at a time when my partner won’t have to share the room with my nasal stench. This is wrong: odors are supposed to go into the nose. I eat something simple and quick, because I can’t taste it anyway. Shortly after eating, I’m nauseous again.
Have you ever noticed how clear things can become when your head is wobbling next to a just-flushed toilet? There’s something about the change of perspective that happens when you’re on the floor next to the bowl that elicits introspection and revelation. Just you, the tile, the cool porcelain, and Eternity…
In that dank and transcendent moment, my nagging concerns all come together. Nothing solid is making it through me. I have an uncomfortable pain under my left rib. I have difficulty filling my left lung up all the way. I can’t eat solid food without it coming back.
Somehow, my intestine has to have herniated up under my diaphragm, partially blocking my lung. It has to be kinked, like a garden hose that won’t flow. I'm nauseous because I'm full – I mean really full. There's no more room for solid food left in my intestines. I have some kind of hiatal hernia. How does something like that happen? Was I folded incorrectly while I was unconscious? Did he have his knee in my stomach to get leverage?
Now I’m starting to get the OHS panic sweat. That’s the heavy sweat that forms when you unintentionally contemplate major medical intervention. It’s accompanied by rapid overheating, flushing, and Shortness Of Breath. A sudden rush of dire thoughts brought on by the realization that you are medically Out Of Your League, and you won’t be fixing this one with an aspirin and a week of Staying Off Of That Side. It’s time to seriously contact the medical establishment.
As I’m not in any actual stomach pain, nor exhibiting symptoms otherwise, I decide to go on Monday morning, starting with my GP. He might feel better if he gets a turn to be in charge of some kind of medical odyssey on my behalf. He hasn’t had a turn yet to run my life the way the other doctors have. Maybe it’ll make him forget about the “uncontrolled blood pressure” incident that I never visited him for. At least it will step me into the presumed surgical outcome gradually, instead of throwing me into it in an Emergency Room panic.
I’ve determined what needs to be done medically, and decided on the adult path of seeking a professional solution. This has a calming effect, and I settle into the recliner for another solo evening.
Twenty minutes later, I am in the center of the living room, breathing heavily. I have been stretching my torso wildly, hoping my lost colon will somehow find its way out and slide back into its proper place in my belly. Heaven knows, there’s enough room for it there. My spouse, having caught sight of me from afar in mid-gyration, has walked away, shaking her head. I smell bad, and now I'm ridiculous. I hate doctors.
