ENT: The Nose Out Of Joint Saga

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"they must never be left in the car, as they will stick to each other and self-destruct"

This brings to mind a conversation I overheard at an x-ray dept. one summer day. They had apparently been frantically looking for a set of x-rays for several weeks. One gal said to another, "you won't believe where they were--in Dr. So and So's car trunk all this time."

I guess HE wasn't too worried about self-destructing x-rays. :rolleyes:
 
LOL.. tobagotwo I don't want to laugh at your expense..but you are a great story teller!:D this saga..albeit painful to you.. has been entertaining to me..the listener!
I do hope all turns out well and that you have little discomfort and great relief!
 
Bob, you must have the patience of a saint as I would have blown a gasket if I had sat for hours only to find out it I didn't need to.

I hope it goes smoother from here and it all turns out well.
 
ENT: The Nose Out Of Joint Saga IV

ENT: The Nose Out Of Joint Saga IV

“You need this surgery,” he says. The CAT scan films will show that this is not an elective procedure.”

He’s actually grinning, and brimming with expectation. In my lackluster honker he sees castles and landscapes, and maybe a trip to Disneyland. His work will take less than an hour, but I must be completely under, because he can’t afford to let me move, “even the slightest bit.” My mind wanders back to the part of the earlier warning that I had ignored. The part about possible brain damage and loss of vision. I satisfy myself that the complete lack of motion will make that possibility even more remote.

“This is going to change your life,” he proclaims with excitement and anticipation. He’s seen the enemy, and he knows he can vanquish it. He’s looking forward to helping me and showing what he can do (and he can – he’s been written up a lot: he’s a real pro).

However, he’s speaking to someone over 55. By the time you reach 55, you find that when something’s going to change your life, it’s usually not going to be in a good way. The promises of uplifting and transmogrifying events that cleanly improve our existence are gradually overshadowed by the ensuing requirements for waxy creams, debilitating prescriptions, or painstaking, time-eating, daily rituals that take more time and life force that was gained in the first place. Talking of instant, positive life changes to a post-55 patient usually brings a small, forced smile in response, a surreptitious eye-roll, and a silent, “and what is this going to cost me?”

Anyway, after I leave, I shuffle through the standard form package for the surgery. There are the usual, in-triplicate medical history forms. There are the requirements for arrival, what to bring, what not to bring. There are release forms. There are blank forms for the family doctor, if his release is also required. I wince at that. Then I read the rules about that very carefully.

In the end, I note that there is no actual requirement for a release from the family doctor. Now, this is gold to someone who has had heart work done (at least to a mildly heretical OHS veteran like me). Consider the CYA tests the family doctor will require, then the ensuing, required visit to the cardiologist, then all his CYA tests, and the intervening waits for appointments. I‘d be running around doing nonrelated lab work-ups and doctor follow-ups until mid-August. Not having the requirement will bring things back to late February. As a bonus, it will happen without the hours away from work (where they are still trimming headcount) waiting for delayed appointments in crowded labs. In the end, I know that the cardiologist will try to talk me out of it anyway, and will wind up just signing a CYA form that says he doesn’t approve, but go ahead if I must.

I take the chance that the day patient surgical center won’t freak when the form isn’t filled out. A day before surgery, I panic and call the ENT’s office. “Did I need to get this filled out?” “Did you have your presurgical visit? Did anyone say anything then?” “No.” “Then you won’t need it.” A woman after my own heart.

I’m ready to go.
 
Intermission...

Intermission...

At this point I have to stop for a moment, trying to consider a few things. First, everyone’s septal surgery is different, because everyone that winds up needing this surgery has widely different issues. So, some of this surgery is pretty minor. And some is a bit more transforming. The other thing that the surgeon did talk about during that presurgical meeting was bleeding. The doctor wanted me off of aspirin, off of vitamin E, C, fish oil, gingko, anything that might increase bleeding, even by the tiniest bit – ten days before the surgery. And to stay off for at least three weeks more afterwards.

I do point out that my deviation was rather spectacular, a blind tunnel running to the site of a septal train wreck, and growth of some protective tissue at the crash site. Perhaps most surgeries might be less apt to produce that much blood. Even mine isn't anywhere near enough that I might need a transfusion, but it muddies up the surgical field and increases drainage issues and healing time.

I guess the point is that facial surgery causes a great deal of bleeding, and remains prone to bleeds for quite a while afterwards. It would have to create a severe septal surgery limitation for someone on Coumadin. The issue seemed to be that the surgeon would not want to bridge at all, as it’s all about the bleeding. There must be some way, or different surgeons who will tackle it, though.

Best wishes,
 
Bob,
Some how I missed all of the entries in this saga until today. You have me on the edge of my seat- please continue and I hope to a happy conclusion!
 
...to smell or not to smell? That is the question...

...to smell or not to smell? That is the question...

tobagotwo said:
...“This is going to change your life,” he proclaims with excitement and anticipation...However, he’s speaking to someone over 55. By the time you reach 55, you find that when something’s going to change your life, it’s usually not going to be in a good way...

We're all sniffling around, on pins and needles, waiting to read your next installment...

Can you now pick things up with your nose? Play the piano? Or did you end up with that one big nostril :eek: ?

Kidding aside, it sounds like quite an ordeal and your brave front with humorous slant is admirable.
Hope the repairs are successful and that you are feeling better every day; take care :) .
 
Hope everything is there. Persistent nose bleeds led me to cautery. The ENT doc asked when my adenoids were removed. 'Never'. was my alarmed reply. Seems like in childhood when my tonsils came out, they took the adenoids as well. Asked my Mum, she had no knowledge of it. In my book that's body parts theft :eek: :D

Bob can I suggest some Cyrano De Bergerac to read during convalescence? :)
 
ENT: The Nose Out Of Joint Saga V

ENT: The Nose Out Of Joint Saga V

The day has arrived. I?m more excited about not having to go to work for a few days than about the impending schnozzal resection. This is Thursday. I?ll have a 9:00 visit with the doctor on next Tuesday, and either return that day or the next. Less than five workdays (under the short-term disability limit). As I have virtually no sick days since my OHS four years ago, it?s not even a blip on the calendar.

I?m in a waiting room with a lot of unhappy-looking people who are awaiting procedures of their own. Each tries uncomfortably to distract himself or herself with the reading material provided, all of which seems to revolve around other disquieting health issues. This would be a good place for comic books, I think.

The reception nurse has checked through my papers with nary a whimper. I?m brought in fairly quickly, and must give up my clothing and dignity for a gown, which a nurse insists on tying for me (?I can do it!?). I?m taken to a spot on the edge of a hallway, where everyone can walk past me and ponder what lies ahead for me, or simply gape. I?m required to lie semireclined on a gurney. I?m introduced to people who may shape my immediate destiny as they pass. I must admit to a lack of interest. They will be out of my life in hours, and only know me when I?m asleep. Each checks my paperwork and then moves on.

Finally one nurse says she?s been assigned to accompany me to my surgery. She pages through my information, and finds the empty sheet for my family doctor. She immediately runs to the anesthesiologist and tells her that she shouldn?t let me have the operation, even though the release wasn?t required. I?m thinking, ?I can hear you,? as she?s loudly ratting me out to the establishment.

I determine to brazen it out. Note to self: it?s difficult to be brazen in a gown that?s tied, but open in the back, while lying in a little bed on wheels that has crib sides up so you won?t fall out. Nonetheless, I muster my best determined-yet-reasonable face for the confrontation. But the anesthesiologist only wavers briefly, delivers a very short sermon regarding ?what we probably should have done,? then decides it will be all right anyway. I have slid in around the second baseman?s glove and hooked the bag after all...
 
Hi Bob, I too missed this saga and like everyone else reading it is waiting to hear what happens next. I had my grandson on my lap in order to put on his socks and shoes when he was about 18 months old. Just as I was leaning over him to tie them he straightened up and threw his head back. I had two black eyes for weeks. I can just picture your incident. Ouch!
 
Hey Bob, you have my sympathies but it sounds like you're a brave soldier in all this.

I had a situation where I had sinus infections continually for several years. At one point I was on antibiotics for one year solid. Well, 10 days on, 4 days off, raging infection returns, another 10 days on, etc.

Meanwhile I went to a string of Dr's. I remember the face XRay the best, the lady tech points the XRay machine directly at my face and then runs out of the room to push the button! Next was a CT scan. I remember looking at one of them and my sinuses looked like coffee cups, half full.

Long story short, I went in to have surgery, basically the "drain" for the left sinus didn't work and never had, since birth. So, the Dr. Rotorootered it out (that's not a word, is it?). Same thing surgery center, etc. Afterwards was the worst. The ENT found new and devious uses for his stainless steel collection of mid evil goodies.

Not long post op I got an infection that was so deep in that it hurt to turn my eye. Do you have any idea how many times per day, per minute, we move our eyes, glancing this way & that? I do when each glance was searing pain. I literally needed to put blinders on.

Life is good now & my new snout works better than ever. I did lose some sense of smell as a result. It's been 14 years.

Hope you are feeling better quickly.

Peace,
Ruth
 
ENT: The Nose Out Of Joint Saga VI

ENT: The Nose Out Of Joint Saga VI

The ENT has taken care of his earlier surgery, a three-year old boy who had some kind of problem that caused him to always be congested and runny-nosed. Really cute kid. I’m not very cute, and this is a reminder to me that I am very fortunate, and I need to be as pleasant as possible. I try to exude pleasant, but the people around me are busy, and they really don’t have time to focus on my newfound pleasantness. They finally wheel me in to the operating room, bumping into a few things on the way (I knew that nurse was out to get me). They have me move to the table. “We are going to start the anesthesia now,” the anesthesiologist begins, and before she can finish her sentence, I feel myself wink out.

* Asleep*

Interesting that I remember these moments so vividly: the plastic tubing and its hanging bag of saline, the gloved hands and the green-gowned midsections in my view, the lights reflecting off the chromed and stainless surfaces; the entire scene. I remember the moment I went under for heart valve surgery just as clearly. It’s a moment of relinquished control, and of acknowledgement that when you awaken, there will be no more waiting; everything will be done, for better or worse.

*Awake*

I am already sitting up. How do they do that? I can speak immediately, and can think clearly (at least I think I am thinking clearly). No nausea, like a short nap. I realize I am not sitting, but rather propped up. No breathing tube, so that went well.

I don’t feel in pain. I feel incredibly congested, and realize that means there is packing in my nose. It's not that uncomfortable, though. I’m in a relatively good mood. I remember being ecstatic as I woke up from OHS. I guess lesser surgery, lesser euphoria. Still good. After all, the main part of it’s over, and now it’s just the recovery.

My wife is there. I knew she would be. Later, she will tell me that I was awake when she came in, but I have no memory of that. Anyway, if she weren’t there, I’d have looked for the bodies on the floor beside whatever path she had taken while trying to get in. For over a dozen years now, she has had to deal not only with me, but with her own body that refuses to give up a constant state of terroristic perimenopause. She is no one to mess with.

There is a large, gauze pad taped to my face, so that it will catch anything grotesque that flees from my altered nose. There are several more gauze pieces lying about nearby. Apparently, part of my liver has leaked from my left nostril, so I attempt to change the pad. The wife steps in and takes over, so that the area around me won’t wind up looking like a scene from Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
 
tobagotwo said:
The ENT has taken care of his earlier surgery, a three-year old boy who had some kind of problem that caused him to always be congested and runny-nosed. Really cute kid. I?m not very cute, and this is a reminder to me that I am very fortunate, and I need to be as pleasant as possible. I try to exude pleasant, but the people around me are busy, and they really don?t have time to focus on my newfound pleasantness. They finally wheel me in to the operating room, bumping into a few things on the way (I knew that nurse was out to get me). They have me move to the table. ?We are going to start the anesthesia now,? the anesthesiologist begins, and before she can finish her sentence, I feel myself wink out.

* Asleep*

Interesting that I remember these moments so vividly: the plastic tubing and its hanging bag of saline, the gloved hands and the green-gowned midsections in my view, the lights reflecting off the chromed and stainless surfaces; the entire scene. I remember the moment I went under for heart valve surgery just as clearly. It?s a moment of relinquished control, and of acknowledgement that when you awaken, there will be no more waiting; everything will be done, for better or worse.

*Awake*

I am already sitting up. How do they do that? I can speak immediately, and can think clearly (at least I think I am thinking clearly). No nausea, like a short nap. I realize I am not sitting, but rather propped up. No breathing tube, so that went well.

I don?t feel in pain. I feel incredibly congested, and realize that means there is packing in my nose. It's not that uncomfortable, though. I?m in a relatively good mood. I remember being ecstatic as I woke up from OHS. I guess lesser surgery, lesser euphoria. Still good. After all, the main part of it?s over, and now it?s just the recovery. My wife is there. I knew she would be. If she weren?t, I?d have looked for the bodies on the floor beside whatever path she had taken while trying to get in. For over ten years, she has had to deal not only with me, but with a body that refuses to leave a state of perimenopause. She is no one to mess with.

There is a large, gauze pad taped to my face, so that it will catch anything grotesque that flees from my altered nose. There are several more gauze pieces lying about nearby. Apparently, part of my liver has leaked from my left nostril, so I attempt to change the pad. The wife steps in and takes over, so that the area around me won?t wind up looking like a scene from Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

Great post!...Thanks for the update and the laugh:D ....wishing you well.
 
Good to hear your on the other side of that.... foothill? :)

Your post is wonderful and your attitude even better. I'm sure you'll do great.

Ugg, now I remember the packing, the equivalent of a big tampon up in my nostril. When they took it out all I remember thinking was "how on earth did something that big fit up in there"? I felt like half my head was filled up with cotton.

I wish you all the best in your recovery.

Ruth
 
ENT: The Nose Out Of Joint Saga VII

ENT: The Nose Out Of Joint Saga VII

It’s a typical recovery area: many gurneys partly showing past lots of ineffective, green curtain partitions, muffled conversations, bland-painted walls, practical, mottled floor tiles, an assortment of bored and uninterested medical people huddled at desk with countless pads of forms on the other side of a waist-high counter. This assemblage is positioned in such a way that noises and entreaties from the recoverees won’t intrude on their conversations.

A Nurse Substitute appears with a large blood pressure machine on a wheeled cart, and cuffs my arm. The results earn an unhappy grimace. “Your blood pressure is high. It was high when you came in. You’ll need to wait a while before you can leave.”

I roll my eyes. The wife shakes her head and shuffles through the magazines, looking for something that doesn’t feature colons or exploded views of infected gall bladders. I’m still sufficiently mellow that I’m content to explore my surroundings from my now lopsided perch.

I focus in on the private conversations going on in the other booths. These people are just as boring as I am. This is going to be a long afternoon.

Eventually, the Semi-Nurse returns with the cart. She redoes the blood pressure with unhappy results. 175/101. Wow. That’s really high for me. In fact, a personal best. She slaps a patch of something white on my chest, some icky compound which is supposed to bring down my BP.

I’m concerned about this. Usually, if I’m even a little above my normal range, I feel it. Doctors will tell you that you can’t feel it, apparently because it’s against their creed to encourage you to trust yourself. But I can usually feel it, and I’ve met plenty of others who say they can, too. I’ve checked it often enough to know that I’m usually correct. Not this time, though, because I just don’t feel it. Maybe it’s the leftover drugs from the anesthesia.

The Partially Nurse returns in 20 minutes, machine in tow. She says the machine is acting a little funny, and she thinks the battery may be getting low. She plugs it into the wall while the cuff is trying to inflate. 180/105. Worse! And the stuff on my chest isn’t doing a thing, except possibly beginning to harden into a white stucco.

This is becoming annoying. I want to leave. I watch the other curtains, thinking that the occupants there are going to go home, and I’m still stuck there. Another Nurse-Like Substance is in the curtain area kitty-corner to mine. I hear her say, “Your blood pressure is very high. It was high when you came in, too. You won’t be able to leave until it goes down.” “Hah!” I think. “Just like me. You aren’t leaving either.”

My Nurse-Apparent comes back again. She wants to try a bigger cuff. I agree. Anything to get out of here. The magic cuff goes on. Now it’s 185/115. She points out that even with the plaster on my chest, my blood pressure’s actually getting worse, and that never happens.

This brings the anesthesiologist out of hiding. She announces that I am especially vulnerable, and it’s very likely that I am about to have a stroke and die. This soothing approach calms me. She wants to have me brought to the hospital now. She also wants to know why I am not taking anything for my uncontrolled blood pressure. I try to explain that I take my blood pressure regularly, and it’s never anything like this. She plainly doesn’t believe me. She has already phoned my family doctor and told him about my dangerous and unmanaged blood pressure. He wants to see me.

I am passive, but unimpressed. She mutters that I can sign myself out against medical advice, if I really want to (I do: I do want to), but she predicts a stroke for me if I don’t go to the hospital shortly. She strolls briskly away, obviously annoyed at people’s stubborn ignorance. No action is taken, so I treat it as a standoff, slightly in my favor.

A third QuasiNurse arrives to visits the lady in the booth next to me. We hear her inform the occupant that her blood pressure is very high, and she can’t leave until it’s back under control. I find little enjoyment in this shared misfortune now. I find myself empathizing with her and the lady diagonally across as well, because we’re all trapped in medical Limbo, a place of drugged semiawareness, neither ready to be forgiven and released to the pearly gates of our homes, nor yet condemned to the Emergency Room.

A few minutes later, my Faux Nurse comes back to us in a heated rush, looking very excited, and avoiding eye contact. She makes a show of taking my blood pressure with a manual sphygmomanometer, which she plainly doesn’t know how to use. She barely gets it on, when she declares that my blood pressure seems to be closer to 100 now. “Let’s try the machine again,” she says, speaking very quickly, and throws the cuff on as fast as she can. However, I have already realized what’s happening from her evasive behavior. I look past her, and see that in the rolling stand is a different blood pressure machine. 138/82. Not a sterling BP, but considering the circumstances, not that bad, either.

My wife is looking at me quizzically. “Gift horse,” I say, “Let’s go.” They tape a new gauze pad under my nose, and give me a clear plastic bag with a small roll of tape and a lifetime supply of large gauze pads. I dress, and we pick up. Then we’re out past the counter. The lady in the stall next to mine is packing up. The new machine is now parked outside the booth kitty-corner to my abandoned cubicle. She, too, will likely have a miracle return to normal blood pressure.

All because between the three of the Pretend Nurses, they either didn't realize the original BP machine was broken, or didn’t know how to operate it properly. And everyone trusts the machine readings: no one ever questions them. I hope she tells the anesthesiologist. I hope the anesthesiologist un-calls my GP.

We get in the car and head for the house. To break the mood, we stop at a farm store. I figure I’m scary enough looking that I should wait in the car. I want to go in, though. I change the already bright red, wet gauze pad, in order not to frighten the locals. I realize the clean gauze pad taped crookedly to my face will look pretty odd as well. Nonetheless, I determine that I will probably be all right as long as I leave the public view before it too becomes a display of gratuitous gore. I go in and amble around. I find Honey Crisp apples, which I love.

Soon, we’re headed back to the house in bright sunshine. Not too bad, I’m thinking. Now it’s just recovery time, until my ENT postsurgical visit on Tuesday morning. How tough could it be..?
 
Bob..
thank your taking us along on your ENT journey. It has been an interesting read for me to say the least!
I do hope that you have a quick and pain free recovery
 
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