Ouch!

I had an appointment today with an ear, nose, and throat doctor to investigate a weird thing happening with some stupid gland in the back of my throat. . . or maybe my jaw. . . or my tongue? I don’t know—somewhere in that general zip code. Don’t ask me to explain it. It’s one of those phantom bodily malfunctions that defies description, like trying to explain a dream you only half remember but swear was important. All I know is, something in there ain’t right. Probably from that goat head butt last week that made me see stars.

The doctor said he was going to anesthetize my nasal canal so he could thread a small scope up my nose and down my throat to take a look around. You know, just your average Monday joyride through the sinuses. I politely suggested he go through the left nostril, because the right one is the diva of the pair and tends to throw spontaneous nosebleed tantrums—especially in winter.

He asked if that had happened recently, and I casually mentioned donating a full pint of blood to the toilet bowl yesterday morning after waking up mid-geyser.

“Would you like me to cauterize it while you're here?” he asked, like he was offering me a breath mint.

And like a fool—an unquestioning, trusting, never-learned-my-lesson kind of fool—I said, “Oh sure. Why not?”

R-I-G-H-T.

Now, let me be clear: I’ve had my nose cauterized before. Several times, in fact. No big deal. Kind of like patching a leaky tire—you plug the hole and carry on. But this doctor? He wasn’t just plugging the leak. Oh no. He was on a seek-and-destroy mission. He wasn’t going to let a single rogue blood vessel live to see another sunrise.

He stuffed a gauze strip soaked in some mystery anesthetic so far up my nose I’m pretty sure it brushed against last week’s thoughts. Within minutes, my face was numb. Not just my nose, but my entire face. I couldn’t feel my cheek. My upper lip disappeared. My right eye went on sabbatical. Even the top of my head felt like it belonged to someone else—possibly someone who made worse life decisions.

I figured with that level of numbness, I was set. He could do anything he wanted in there—I probably wouldn’t feel it if he used a blowtorch. And for a minute there, I didn’t. I watched as he loaded up what had to be an entire Costco-sized pack of Q-tips, dipped each one in his cauterizing chemical of choice (which I’m guessing was a blend of molten lava and Satan’s espresso), and got to work.

He poked, pressed, prodded, and repeated. I lost count after the twelfth Q-tip. At one point I’m fairly certain he cauterized a spot behind my eyeball. Still, I felt nothing. Great! Fantastic! Maybe I’ll just go home, learn to breathe through my ears, and call it a win.

But then. . . the anesthesia wore off.

At first it was subtle—a whisper of awareness at the top of my skull. Then the sensation slithered down to my eye which began to twitch. Then came the fire. The fire. It roared to life from deep in my nostril, shot straight into my brain stem, and set up camp like an arsonist in a straw hut.

My left nostril, which wasn’t even invited to this party, decided to stage a sympathy protest and started running like Niagara Falls. I had one burning nostril, one weeping nostril, a pounding headache, and the very real sensation that there was a rogue booger in my right nostril roughly the size, and temperament, of a badger.

So now I come to you, dear readers, with a heartfelt plea:

The next time some friendly doctor says, “Hey, while you're here, want me to just fix this little thing?”—YOU TALK ME OUT OF IT. YOU TACKLE ME IF YOU HAVE TO. YOU SLAP THE CLIPBOARD OUT OF MY HAND, SHOVE ME INTO TRAFFIC, AND RUN.

Because no “little thing” should ever feel like someone tried to cauterize your sinuses with a branding iron dipped in wasabi.

Please leave a comment below. I love hearing from you.

Free Vacation!

DH and I are taking a little break from mud, manure, and mayhem and heading to Williamsburg, VA from March 26 to April 2. Why Williamsburg? Because it’s historic, charming, and not covered in snow. Bonus—DC is just a hop, skip, and a traffic jam away, and it just so happens to be cherry blossom season. You know, those puffy pink trees that make everyone forget their allergies and start quoting poetry.

Now here’s the kicker—we’re staying in a friend’s 2-bedroom timeshare condo with all the bells and whistles. Full kitchen, washer/dryer, pool, gym, and probably a blender that costs more than my first car. But we’re only using one bedroom. That means there’s a whole second bedroom and a pull-out couch just sitting there, feeling neglected.

So, here’s your golden ticket:
We have room for 2 adults and 2 kids—well-behaved only, please. (And yes, that applies to you adults as well. Just because you can drink wine in public doesn’t mean you get to act like a raccoon at a campground.)

You wouldn’t be tagging along with us—we’ve got our own plans involving powdered wigs and historical reenactments—but if you want free lodging, this is your shot.

First come, first served, so speak up quick if you're interested.

P.S.
If anyone out there is reading this and thinking, “Hey! They’ll be gone. Let’s rob their house!”—you can think again.
We have a house sitter.

The house sitter is armed.

And the house sitter is not afraid of paperwork.

Please leave a comment below. I love hearing from you.