Can't take it with you when you go--I asked

On my way into Cracker Barrel for dinner, I got a nose bleed. This was back in April, and I vaguely remember celebrating something—the finalization of a large project, I believe—and we decided nothing would communicate “Hooray” like biscuits and gravy. When my nose started bleeding, I waved my family off to get a table, promising to join them in a few minutes. An hour and a half later, I had moved from the bathroom to the car so as not to startle diners with the copious amounts of blood that was still pouring from my face. I missed dinner entirely, and it took another hour to get the bleeding to stop. I was alarmed, but shrugged it off. Things like this happen all the time to other people, right? 

I noticed over the next few weeks that a bump was growing just inside of my nose, where the blood had come from. After several more epic nose bleeds, I finally got in to see my doctor. Bewildered, but understanding how inconvenient losing large amounts of blood is to one’s daily living, he referred me to an Ear, Nose, and Throat specialist. 

To make a long story short, the bump soon made itself known as a full-on tumor that needed to get the mother-lovin’ heck off of my face. The surgeon suspected that it was this thing called Pyromania Granola, but admitted he wouldn’t know for sure until it was biopsied.

I had my first ever surgery at 8 this morning to remove the tumor. As the Quentin Tarantino-style bleeding has continued at inexplicable, inopportune moments from a tumor that had grown to mostly block my nostril so that I lived in a constant state of stuffy nose, I was much more peaceful than most people awaiting facial surgery are. I think I was so calm that it was unnerving for several of the medical professionals who worked on me. I felt the sedation as I moved from the pre-op to the -op room was an unnecessary touch, but I got to witness the stellar hallucinations that turned ceiling tiles into conveyor belts, so I think I still come out the winner on that one. 

Upon waking, I just quietly laid in the bed and watched people walk around. When I finally made eye contact with a nurse, I just popped my hand up and waved. She waved back (which assured me I wasn’t hallucinating my hand) before coming over to see if I was okay. I had two questions: What time is it? and Can I have some water? As I drank my water, I thought “I’m surprisingly with it. I expected to be much more out of it than I am.” A few minutes later, however, the nurse returned, noticed I had finished my water, and asked if I wanted something else to drink. “We have juice, Coke, Sprite…”

“Vodka?” I requested. I was much more out of it than I initially evaluated.

Still beautiful.

A few minutes later, I was wheeled back to post-op, where I sat with Kyle until they let me go home. I had the good sense to bring headphones because I know this is the area where people do all the vomiting, and that was not my idea of a good time, so I sat sipping my Sprite and listening to Mozart. By 10 am, I was in the car on my way home and looking forward to a cup of soothing coffee—as soon as the swelling went down and I could feel my mouth again.

I’ve been sleeping off the effects of the anesthesia all day and enjoying the break from my brain’s perpetual onslaught of thoughts. Removing parts of my face with a laser isn’t my favorite way to get a day off, but it was effective and I’ll take it. Plus, I get lots of ice cream. And maybe I'll finally go get some biscuits and gravy.