Tag Archives: cystic fibrosis

Invaders storm the walls of my castle (another bad clinic appointment)

Posted on by
4

INT – Castle – afternoon

The lead knight rushes to Unknown with important news. 

It's time to visit my happy place tonight. It looks like this. Ah, that's better. Ocean breeze and salt water.

It’s time to visit my happy place tonight. It looks like this. Ah, that’s better. Ocean breeze and salt water.

Knight: The scum have surrounded the castle and are upon the walls, Sir.

Unknown: All right then, man, no need to panic. We’ve been here before. Piece of cake. Let’s drop some boiling oral cipro on their heads.

Knight: Been there, done that.

Unknown: What? What do you mean by, “been there, done that”?

Knight: We already tried the boiling oral cipro, Sir. It’s lost it touch, it has.

Unknown: Really? Well, that’s not good. All right then, Plan B. How about some flaming balls of IV tobramycin to knock them down? That’s always a game-changer.

Knight: Been there, done that.

Unknown: My God, man, would you stop staying that, please?

Knight: Been there, done that?

Unknown: Yes, that. Exactly. Thank you. It’s no time for negativity. Are you quite sure the last barrage had no positive impact?

Knight: Yep. Not this time. Quite surprising it was, if I must say so. Just bounced right off of them. Quite amazing to see. Tough little buggers and quite angry.

Unknown: I see. Brilliant. Well, what else have we got here?

Knight: For lunch?

Me: For lunch? Are you daft, man? For heaven’s sake. For lunch? Not for lunch, imbecile. To drop on them. To keep them out of the castle.

Knight: Hmm, let me think. [pause while he thinks, and thinks some more] Well, lunch was pretty awful. It might work.

Unknown: Oh, my god. That’s the best you’ve got?

Knight: Well, yes. The ham is quite spoiled. Damn awful. They’ll be throwing up for hours if they eat it. Buy us some time, it will.

Unknown: Oh, damn me. We’ve run out of tricks, haven’t we? I guess we have no choice. Drop the ham. Drop it now. Let’s buy a few hours before we’re buggered for good.

Knight: But we’re out of ham.

Unknown: What? But you just said we had ham.

Knight: Well, not technically. I said perhaps we’d like to consider dropping lunch on them. But we ate it all.

Unknown: Even though it was rotten?

Knight: We used lots of mustard.

Unknown: And the men didn’t leave even a tiny bit of ham for later?

Knight: No, I’m afraid not. We ate all of it.

Unknown: And you didn’t get sick?

Knight: Oh, we got sick all right. Right horrid, it was. Oh, terrible squirts. But we was hungry. What’s a man to do when his stomach calls?

Unknown: Skip the detail next time, my dreadful knight. So, if I’m to understand correctly, what you’re saying is that we’re completely screwed?

Knight: I guess I am. That sounds about right, Captain. Completely screwed. 100%.

Unknown: Very well then, I’m going to walk to that wall over there. And then I’m going to climb up on it, at which point I want you to give me a nice solid kick to the arse, sending me over the edge and into the intruders. I may as well take a few of them with me on the way out. Are you clear on the new plan, my good knight?

Knight: Crystal, Sir. It will be my pleasure, your royalness, to kick you in the arse. My pleasure indeed.

The End

I have no right to complain. Every day I grow old with CF is a gift, but some of those days have their challenging moments. Today was one of those days.

My PFTs are still down after IVs. Or, no improvement. And the reason I can’t hear higher tones anymore is because I’ve lost a portion of my hearing thanks to the dozens of doses of IV tobramycin I’ve taken over the years – one drop at a time. Ouch.

Tomorrow will be a better day. I have a shipment of ham on the way.

A guest link from Sir Sean

Posted on by
2

So, my good friend in England, Sir Sean of Englandshire, decided to walk to his computer, turn it on, visit his own blog, and write a blog post. Happy days. And he wrote a good one. It’s about how technology is changing the way doctors monitor cystic fibrosis treatments.

Why doesn’t my US CF clinic have anything like this?

I imagine one day sending information from my daily treatments and FEV1 to my clinic. My PFT graphs won’t have dots placed every three months. Instead my peaks and valleys will be smoother, and I’ll see trends soon rather than getting a nasty surprise at clinic. Perhaps my blood pressure won’t skyrocket on clinic days if I already know what to expect.

This is Sir Sean as young man getting ready for his mandatory military duty for Queen and country. Oh, England, they love those old-school battles still.

This is Sir Sean as a young man getting ready for his mandatory military duty for Queen and country.  England, how they cherish old-school war technology and sword battles still.

I’ve read a few articles on doctors using iPhone apps to measure patients’ heart rates and other body functions. I’d really like it if I could go to the doctor but not go to the doctor. That’s my dream.

So, please click on the link at the bottom and check out Sir Sean’s post.

BTW, Sir Sean is a big fan of the West Ham soccer team. I haven’t had the courage to tell him I played FIFA 13 on Xbox with my 11-year-old nephew and I chose West Ham. They lost 1 to nil. Sorry about that Sir Sean. They bite virtually too. It clearly had nothing to do with my soccer playing skills.

Here’s the link. Get ready for more technology to help us battle cystic fibrosis.

https://www.tumblr.com/seanset/41292567739/i-neb-insight-online

I fail a sleep test and O2D2 comes to live with me

Posted on by
8

Here are the fantasy and reality versions of my recent sleep test:

Fantasy: I enter a room that resembles a science lab with machines beeping, beakers of liquid bubbling dry-ice steam, and scientists with clipboards taking notes. A large one-way glass wall hides the doctors. The bed is round with a vibrating feature that costs 50 cents. A stack of quarters waits on the nightstand. Jackpot. A 72-inch flat screen is mounted to the ceiling and a Die Hard film festival is playing.

Reality: I enter a dim hospital room with one small overhead fluorescent light glowing and a king-size, rock-hard bed covered in 25-count white hospital sheets with old blood stains covered by a thin, crappy blanket. Ah, prison, I remember thee, my second home. The cushion on the single, lonely “not J-Crew green” chair has a torn fabric seat and would sell on Craigslist for a maximum of $10, which I know because I measure everything in Craigslist value. Crappy hospital flat screen: $45 – $60.

Fantasy: I’m greeted by two nurses who model on weekends. They insist on giving me a shiatsu massage to make sure I’m relaxed and ready for a good night’s sleep. They talk softly and compliment my muscle tone and how solid I feel. Yep, ladies, keep dreaming, I tell them, this ab table is reserved for one woman, my wife – but don’t stop the massage just because I popped your dream balloons. And they continue, little tears falling from their sad blue eyes.

Reality: I’m greeted by a young male lab-tech who just graduated college, looks 10, and speaks in a monotone, as he explains every technical detail of the test at a volume I stopped being able to hear when I was 18 and sat in the front row of a Who concert. Why can’t I sleep through this drone of medical detail, God? Why? Tell me.

Fantasy: After my massage, I’m dressed in Hugh Hefner Collection black and red silk pjs and tucked into bed by the nurses. Two electrodes are placed on my head, Bruce Willis shoots bad guys above me, and the ladies sing Beatles songs until my eyelids can no longer resist their siren powers. And I dream of . . . .

Reality: The lab tech robs Home Depot of every foot of wire they sell, then uses a thick gel-like glue to plaster all of it to my face, head, shins and stomach. The process takes 45 minutes and feels like watching King Lear in German. Worst of all, he asks personal questions of me. I’m grumpy, tired and want to sleep. I don’t like telling him about my life but can’t escape his suffocating, questioning captivity, while wishing he might accidentally stick one of the wires in a live socket and electrocute me.

Fantasy: I sleep like a rock.

Reality: I sleep like shit.

Fantasy: The nurses gently wake me in the morning with soft kisses. You taste like maple bacon, they say, delicious. The doctor interrupts and tells me she watched my brain waves with great interest last night and has never seen anything quite like them. Would I mind coming back next week when her colleagues from Austria will be visiting? They’d like to study my magnificent brain. Of course, my good doctor. Of course. Anything for science and my two nurse gal-pals. 

Reality: I wake up in the middle of the night and can’t sleep. I see the infrared camera and decide to give him the tech something to watch. So, I squirm around the bed, stretch, and dredge up any and every memory I can, flipping back and forth from childhood to adult memories, from terrible events (coughing up blood on a plane over the Atlantic Ocean) to the best moments (my daughter being born). Back and forth I go, lighting up my brain waves (so, I think), living my life over in my head, expecting the tech to come tell me the computer is on fire and to stop thinking before I burn down the entire hospital.

The air hose they gave me is probably long enough for me to walk to the grocery store a mile away.

The air hose they gave me for O2D2 is probably long enough for me to walk to the grocery store a mile away.

Fantasy: I am a perfect sleeper. No farting, snoring, no scratching body parts, nothing. Perfect lamb, I am.

Reality: My oxygen dips below acceptable levels and I’m given 1 liter of O2 for the remainder of the test. Four days later, R2D2’s little brother, O2D2, shows up at my home and starts humming and burping in my bedroom each night delivering oxygen.

Fantasy: I fly home instead of driving.

Reality: I don’t let this new milestone rock my world. My new positive attitude of “one day at time” shields me against bad thoughts and self-pity. I am grateful. I am lucky. I have so much to be thankful for. I repeat this over and over until it sinks in and life goes on.

It’s one thing to say you’re living day by day, it’s another to do it

Posted on by
6

I had an epiphany the other day, but not in the religious sense. More of the, “I may be screwed if I don’t get moving” kind. As in:

  1. My lung function is decreasing.
  2. They want to test for mycobacteria, or MAC, which is something I’d rather not have – are you listening, Universe?
  3. Work defies logical explanation, other than to say I received my yearly review the other day, which was excellent, thankfully. However, I feel more like an administrative assistant to my supervisor and manager than the creative-idea generator and problem solver I’ve been for many years. But I have a job and benefits. That’s all anyone can ask these days. If mopping the floor is needed, I best do it with a smile on my face. 

Yes, I live in a Dali painting.

And yet, the other day, I truly came to peace with all of this and the stress and fear. I may be the luckiest person on the planet, but I know I am going to die one day. Perhaps soon? Hard to predict. But I’ve reached an age where I can’t let trivial bullshit bother me.

I've never been one to buy posters for inspiration, but I liked this one and ordered it during Christmas. I didn't get it just for me. I bought as a reminder for my daughter, who will see it in my office once I hang it. And it seems like a good omen for me now. Double win.

I’ve never been one to buy posters for inspiration, but I liked this one and ordered it during Christmas. I didn’t get it just for me. I bought as a reminder for my daughter, who will see it in my office once I hang it. And it seems like a good omen for me now. Double win.

Best of all, and this is hard to explain, but I’m feel like I’m truly living day-to-day right now. Not the type of “day-to-day” I lived when I was a teenager that meant “anything goes.” God knows, I’m paying the price for that now. No, this is more of a restrained, “working within the framework of my current life” type of experience.

I’m not going to quit my job.

I’m not going to stop taking my meds or doing my treatments.

I’m not going to blow our 401ks on a red Porsche 911 with a whale tail, tempting as it may sound.

However, I’m not going to worry about the future as much any more either. Perhaps that is the key difference this time, allowing me to gain the upper hand.

I believe that each day may truly be my last and that I’d better make it damn good. And so far, it’s working. They’ve all been good. And there’s a certain calm that comes with this new attitude.

Massage on Wednesday? Why not.

Spend 20 bucks at the flea market on the cute hand-painted bench that my daughter likes? No reason not to.

Part with stuff cluttering my garage and donate it to Goodwill? Absolutely.

The clock may be ticking, but so am I. At least today I am. And, despite the storm clouds in the distance, I’m feeling grateful for that simple gift.

Holiday in the south of Azithromycin

Posted on by
12

[No Z-packs were harmed in the writing of this post]

I get a holiday from Azithromycin for 30 days, which is kind of nice, as eliminating a med from the list feels good. Don’t I wish I could cut them all. How nice would that be? Especially if I could lose the 4.5 hours a day I spend on inhaled treatments.

Valentine's Day is going to be easy this year. My wife is getting something red, something small, something that comes in batches of 14, something with numbers on it.Any guesses?

Valentine’s Day is going to be easy this year. My wife is getting something red, something small, something that comes in batches of 14, something with numbers on it.
Any guesses?

For Halloween next year, I’m dressing in black and white stripes like a prisoner. And instead of a ball and chain around my ankle, I’m going to tie a bunch of nebulizers together and attach them to my ankle using old air hoses.

Prisoner of CF?

Okay, never mind. No one in my neighborhood would get the joke.

Okay, end of bitching.

Back to the Azithromycin topic, which I zagged away from.

Yes, I received an email from my CF clinic telling me to chill on the little red pills – 250mg a day for life. They want the drug to clear my system so they can test me for mycobacteria. They believe the Azithromycin might be suppressing the bacteria. Luckily I stopped the med during the hospital stay because it’s too much of a load on my system and makes the possibility of c diff more likely (for me, not medical advice for you), as I can just say “c diff” and get it.

So, I’m at day 13 in the 30-day “z-pack detox program.” Thursday I get my 15-day chip.

I hope I don’t have this new bacteria because knowing what I know about it from my friend Stacey, all I have to say is, “aaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggggghhhhhhhh.” Women have the strength to fight this one. I’m toast.

Actually, I had to smile when I got the email. I thought of a quote I heard on Justified the other day: “Growing old ain’t for pussies.”

Nope, it ain’t. Thanks for that life lesson, Raylan Givens. Could have used it a bit sooner, my friend.

8 days of work, football, videos, crappy food, and IV antibiotics

Posted on by
3

I’m home after one of the least eventful hospital stays in a long time. Other than having to ask for a different nurse after the first one tanked a port-needle change, my prison days rolled by with minimal pain and little to talk to the doctors about, other than why my lung function has dropped and is not improving.

I know most people have one time, short stays in the hospital, but after dozens of visits, I can't take the food anymore.

I know most people have one-time, short stays in the hospital, but after dozens of visits, I can’t take the food anymore.

That is the worrisome part. Or, the part I don’t want to talk about right now.

I pounded out a decent amount of work while in captivity. Sometimes even I wonder why I do it, but I’m just programmed that way.

And perhaps that was the most stressful part of the jail time – work.

Our 8-person group is coming under fire from new management for reasons unknown. It’s a little like elementary school when the entire class loses their recess because of the actions of a few. I just saved anyone reading this the details, but it created a lot of stress for me not just in the way work stress does. Instead it made me realize I can’t put up with some of this bullshit anymore as my life comes to an end. It’s not worth it and my time is too valuable.

I will say this: If it weren’t for my wife and daughter, I might give up. Yes, I know I’m the luckiest man in the world, but even with that in mind, getting painted into a corner in life, or feeling trapped, can make one feel hopeless.

It’s always the total load, trying to work, make money, avoid jail time, keep my lung function up, and float on top of the cloud of trivial bullshit some people live in.

Some days it feels overwhelming and I wish I were pushing a basket around downtown Los Angeles with my black lab and IV machine in tow, which may be happening soon the way work is going these days.

So, with a heavy mind, I spent a lot of time escaping into videoland at night, watching movies or runs of TV episodes, like House of Games (awesome), and Justified (pretty good; I wish I was either the actor that plays Raylan Givens, or Givens himself. There is something to be said for being cool in life).

So, life goes on as I complete the IVs at home, Inipenem every six hours with a 3-hour drip, and Tobra once a day for 60 minutes.

I’ll have plenty of time to think about my next move before others make it for me.

The best Christmas ever (and I understand Charlie Brown much better now)

Posted on by
4

Here are my very simple criteria for what makes a Christmas, “the best Christmas”:

  1. Was I alive during it?
  2. Did I stay out of the hospital?

Check off both of those boxes this year. Thus, best Christmas ever. Check back next year and if those two boxes are checked again, you’ll see a post with the same title.

Though my present was Luna's bionic knee, I did get some stocking stuffers, like this BBQ mitt to keep me from burning the hair off my arm each time I cook the fish.

Though my present was Luna’s bionic knee, I did get some stocking stuffers, like this BBQ mitt to keep me from burning the hair off my hand and arm each time I cook fish.

You’ll notice there’s nothing on my checklist about the gifts I received during the holiday. Just living to see another Christmas and not being in the hospital are the only two gifts I care about now. When I was younger it was about the “stuff,” which would make the year I received a Sizzlers racetrack the best Christmas ever.

So, this Christmas was pretty awesome. We didn’t make any parental missteps like last year’s bicycle gift to my daughter. My wife and I gave her a bunch of eclectic gifts this year, including a messenger bag that she loved and carried around downtown Ventura two days later, which is amazing considering she’s allergic to carrying anything, especially groceries from the car to the house.

The art supplies Santa (my wife) bought her made her happy. And I went off the reservation, so to speak, this year, and ordered her several gifts without asking for my wife’s “voice of reason” opinion, which would have killed some of them. I just ordered stuff I thought my daughter would like: an origami book, a logic puzzle book, a scientific cookbook for kids, and a book on cupcakes.

Jackpot! I received zero, “Why is there a bicycle wedged in my stocking?” looks this year.

If there was one melancholy moment, it was at dinner the next night when my daughter challenged us to a logic puzzle. Both my wife and I made the big mistake of attempting it while we continued to eat, not paying attention that my daughter ignored her turkey and mashed potatoes and gave 100% of her young, healthy brain’s attention to the puzzle.

The two of us were halfway through it when she yelled out, “done.”

My favorite quote from the movie Aliens seems appropriate here: “What do you mean, THEY cut the power? How could they cut the power, man? They’re animals!”

So, my response was somewhat similar: What do you mean you finished? You did the entire thing? How did you do it that fast, you’re only 10?”

What happened to our little girl, the half-pint sponge who dressed up as Snow White and loved tea parties? Hello, computer-brained daughter whose main goal now is to have a mental throwdown with her parents, with little thought and compassion for their fragile adult self-esteem. What the heck are they teaching kids in fifth grade these days?

Round two. With fresh copies of a new puzzle in our hands and full concentration – dinner set aside – the three of us went at it again.

I also received a Kreg Jig Jr. I can go "pocket hole" crazy now.

I also received a Kreg Jig Jr. I can go “pocket hole” crazy now.

The scene: clock ticking loudly, sweat dripping off my brow, collar feeling tight, pencil slowly etching the paper, scribbled notes, stomach churning.

The result: My wife finished first, followed by my daughter two seconds later, followed by me – later.

Defeat, failure. Smashed by the two females in my house, an event that is happening way too often these days. ARGH, Charlie Brown, I know how you felt, my man. I know how you felt.

But if there is a silver lining to the beat down, I’m still the person they come to when their computers don’t work, or something in the house needs fixing. Luckily, the logic puzzles don’t extend to real life, and I still have some purpose and value left.

All hope is not lost yet, Charlie Brown.

Happy New Year to all.

Thoughts always on my mind

Posted on by
6

I could, at anytime, contract a bacterial infection that kicks my ass and destroys my quality of life, or kills me. What would it take? Touching the wrong surface? A careless hospital worker? A rogue germ on the escalator at the mall? It’s hard dodging an invisible enemy year after year.

I need all my clothing made out of these. Adios, bacterial invaders. Too bad I can’t reach inside my lungs and swab out the invaders with one of these.

I may have cancer now and not know it, or get it at anytime in the future. I’m in the death zone and potentially a doctor’s appointment away from it. My mother has cancer, my grandmother died from it. Should I take this as a hint from the universe?

At any moment, a stream of crimson fluid might blast from my lungs. I think about this throughout the day – each day – when I bend over, when I go to sleep at night. when I walk up a hill, when I accidentally eat food that thins the blood. (This salad dressing has garlic?) I think about it every time I cough. Every time. 

Why do I sweat the small stuff, especially considering the other thoughts that live in my head? I should be doing more with the life I have left and not worrying so much.

I worry about my wife and daughter, especially my daughter. My wife works out of the house, so I know she is okay most of the time. But my daughter is getting older and independence is calling. At 10 she thinks she knows it all, and when I gave her the “stranger lecture” before the festival last weekend, she grumbled and told me she already knew it. Every time I read about a missing child or teen or young female adult, I get sad for the loss, and worry.

How many admin tasks will my boss send me today? Menial, administrative work tasks feel like walking up to a chalkboard, opening my mouth wide, and running my teeth across the surface. The thought of it alone gives me shivers. End of Day (EOD), Close of Business (COB), End of Week (EOW) work emails = the classic comedy scene where Lucy works in the chocolate factory.

I need to read and write more. How did I spend three nights in a row watching the first three Alien movies? Final score: Aliens 3; creativity 0.

I suck. I am a failure. I have not lived up to my potential. If I had, my wife would not have to work for one of the world’s worst bosses and be stressed all the time. I should not have sold my Apple stock years ago. I should be running my own business and in control of my own destiny.

How many days has it been since I’ve taken a shower?

That’s the stuff I think about.

Odds and Ends in October

Posted on by
Reply

I’m entering the dark months.  Otherwise known as the months when the odds are I’ll be hospitalized – probably more than once. They’re also the bleeding months, especially autumn. Not sure why that happens.

We’re almost done with the kitchen. We’re this close (I’m pitching my two fingers together with a tiny gap of space between them.)

I’ve haven’t written about the remodel yet because I don’t like to think about it more than I have to. The contractor is a good guy, but he and I disagree about the quality of the backsplash installation. His assistant had to go back in and remove some glass tiles because there were gaps in the mortar that showed through. I’ll never do a glass tile again unless it has an opaque backing on it.

This is the backsplash we went with. Expensive and a pain in the rear to install. If my time machine was working, I’d go back and undo this decision, or know to hire someone with specific knowledge of how to install it.

So, that’s why the remodel has gone on for so long. Should be finished in couple of days when he cleans up the last round of grout and seals it. I can’t wait to have it over with. I don’t want to go through a kitchen remodel again.

I’m giving up on moving to a new house. I know that sounds strange having just remodeled the kitchen, but I don’t like the two neighbors around us. It’s just a matter of time before one of them loses it again. If this were high school, my classmates would be voting me, “most likely to be killed by a neighbor.”

I want to move, but trying to find a house right now is crazy. Looks like the market has finally hit bottom. Every time I find a house I like, it gets multiple offers in a matter of days. There is a shortage of good houses right now. Or should I say a shortage of houses that meet the qualifications of my wife who doesn’t want to move.

I went to see a fixer-upper yesterday with my agent and when we got there it had just entered into escrow. Argh. It had been on the market a week. Low supply, high demand. So, I’m giving up. It’s probably better anyway because I don’t want to saddle my wife with extra debt should a meteor fall from the sky and bean me in the head, though my head is pretty hard and filled with rock. Might not bother me. I’m more concerned about it ricocheting off of my noggin and hurting someone else.

I think I’m going through a mid-life crisis. I see the clock ticking, but I’m having a hard time changing course. Tick tock.

Nose Bleed from Hell

Posted on by
9

The day after I left the hospital, I woke up from a dead sleep with my nose streaming blood. It bled for over three hours. The first two hours, a steady flow, were the scariest, sending me to the ER at 3:30 in the morning, wife and daughter with iPad in tow. And once again I know why I could never kill anyone. It’s the blood. Not that I’m shy about seeing it, but it gets everywhere. And unless you’re Dexter and wrap up your victim in plastic, you’re going to get caught because of it. We’re still finding brown spots in our house days later.

As I had my hands full during this ER stay and didn’t think to snap a photo, I used a photo from my last visit, which wasn’t that long ago. Argh.

At the ER, the nice, but “unseasoned” doctor first sprayed Afrin in my nose, which is a great trick to know when you need to stop a bleed. But, and here is another important thing to know when you have a bloody nose, if your blood pressure goes up because you’re anxious, the bleeding may continue. And that’s what happened to me, causing an “Afrin fail,” though we didn’t understand the blood pressure connection at that point.

Move on to Plan B and bring on the tampon nose-balloons. Insertion and inflation complete, I bled around them, over them, under them. Until I didn’t. Then the blood built up and drained down the back of my throat. Then they leaked again. Second fail. What’s Plan C?

I had a moment where I wondered if I should invite my wife and daughter back to the room filled with red and white towels because the doctor sounded like he was out of tricks and I had this strange feeling that after all of these years I might be killed by a bloody nose. Irony?

The bleeding went on until I did two things. I made the connection between anxiety and what the volume of blood coming out of my nose and asked for something to relax me. I received an Ativan tablet, which surprised me as they had an IV in me and could have express-trained the dose. I also called my sinus doctor since I thought I needed to take control and do everything I could to fix the situation. To my surprise he called me back, instructing the ER doctor to get my blood pressure down (as in get me to relax), tilt my head forward, and place an ice pack on my nose and forehead.

Hello to more Ativan and a blue bag filled with ice. 30 minutes or so later my nose was down to an annoying faucet-like drip and I was slurring my words. And after three hours at the ER, I let my wife drive me home.

Nine hours after the bloody nose started, I arrived at the sinus doctor. He deflated and removed the balloons, mixed up some glue-like substance that reminded me of the time I epoxied rebar into cement, coated my sinuses with it, and the bleeding stopped. Relief at last.

He sent me home with a prescription for Ativan and the following advice should my nose start bleeding again: shove Afrin-soaked cotton balls up my nose, lean my head forward, squeeze my nostrils, place an icepack on my nose and forehead, and find a quiet place to remain calm. And kiss my ass goodbye.

Okay, not the last part, but you know that’s what I’ll be thinking if it happens again.