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| Au revoir, tonsils! |
I remember watching television as a kid and seeing tonsilectomies portrayed almost as emergency holidays for children. You went to the hospital, had a minor procedure, and were waited on hand and foot by an attractive nurse. Everyone came to visit, some brought gifts, and you were allowed to consume your weight in ice cream and it somehow didn’t impact your waistline. You went home and were on the baseball field the next day, a conquering hero.
I also remember having throat issues since I was in elementary school. Growing up, sore throats were an intermittent part of life, becoming much worse as I moved into my teens. Canker sores would form on my tonsils, bringing with them a week and a half of flu-like symptoms. The best (in-network) medical minds could not figure it out. The removal of my tonsils was often on the table only to be removed by a second opinion. The tonsils stayed and I learned to tough it out.
More recently, the situation has become more serious. Snoring, a man’s birthright, became worse. For my wife, it was like sleeping next to an all-hours airport that was having concrete work done. For me, it was night after night of interrupted breathing, broken sleep, a dozen trips to the bathroom, and subsequent drowsy days. I had severe sleep apnea.
Given my claustrophobia issues–and other things–the CPAP machine was a constant battle that I could never find comfort with. I’d discard the mask after an hour or two and could spend ten hours in bed and wake up feeling as though I’d not slept at all. This was a quality-of-life problem that needed to be addressed.
At a recent wellness exam with the Little Red-haired Doctor, we were discussing my acrimonious relationship with the CPAP. I asked her if she’d take a look at my tonsils.
“Those are aggressive,” she noted.
A referral to an ear, nose, and throat (ENT) doctor was put in that day.
The ENT agreed. I looked at the illustration of the human throat on the wall of the examination room. The poster illustrated proportion, spacing, pharynx feng shui, even. My throat, on the other hand, was more like the overhead compartment after a turbulent flight.
“It’s like having two large meatballs stuck in your throat,” offered the ENT, after agreeing removal would be the prudent option. While she was there, she said, she’d take the uvula and trim the soft palate. This figured to improve my situation greatly.
Other than the basic mechanics of the operation, an adult tonsilectomy bares little resemblance to the adolescent version. It’s more painful and the recovery is longer. Generally speaking, the older you are, the more uncomfortable the operation. Given I was forty years removed from prime tonsillectomy age, this figured to be a bitch.
“You’re going to hate me for about two weeks,” the ENT said at the conclusion of my appointment.
The long game, I reminded myself. Quality of life, I reminded myself.
Not only was my sleep quality terrible, but I found myself frequently choking on unremarkable bites of food. Easter morning, when I choked on a communion wafer, I was further convinced that surgery was the right thing.
* * * *
Surgery was scheduled for May 7. This was two days after my daughter’s club volleyball season concluded. I had arranged to take two weeks off from work, hoping it would be ample recovery time. As the weeks passed, I became more apprehensive.
In the time leading up to surgery, I was regaled with tales and personal experiences. A friend of my wife claimed it was more painful than her C-Section. I’d not be able to evaluate this claim myself, but it certainly got my attention. My food intake would be altered significantly. This was understandable. There was another lifestyle facet that bothered me as well.
There’s no sense in spinning it. I have a caffeine addiction. Since I don’t like coffee or tea, soda has always been my preferred delivery method. Carbonation and citric acid figured to play hell on a tender throat, and I imagined myself, bedridden and hurting while simultaneously detoxing from the sharp, claw-like clutches of caffeine. It may not be as sexy as heroin, but the withdrawal figured to be in the ballpark.
I was also told by the ENT nurse–and others–not to Google “tonsillectomy.” Just trust the medical staff. Ample drugs were promised. Again, while I appreciated the gesture, it concerned me. Prescription pain medication is harder to come by than a good movie these days, and the fact they were offering it upfront told me I was in for a difficult recovery.
The weekend before surgery, I was at my daughter’s volleyball tournament. Between matches, I checked my email on my phone and was encouraged to pre-check in for my appointment. This entailed verifying information in my file. Toward the end of the process, I came to a cost breakdown and was asked how much I wished to pay. With zero not being an option, I skipped that portion.
The bill was daunting. Since the government attempted to make healthcare affordable, I’ve found it anything but. My hour-long procedure added up to $22 thousand, of which, my insurance planned to pick up roughly 80%. This left me on the hook for over four thousand dollars. Yes, the cost was shocking, but even more so was the breakdown of fees.
The ENT, responsible for laying out the procedure and subsequently executing the blade work, would get $2000 for her trouble. Nearly $21,000 was attributed to the somewhat vague category, hospital fees. Accommodations would run me $3500 an hour. I understand there would be attending nurses, and the anesthesiologist has an important role and commands a decent buck. The rest felt like it was bid by the government.
I’ve done a decent amount of traveling–sometimes to exotic destinations. I’ve never paid anywhere near twenty grand for accommodations. Breaking this down was beyond me. Including my wait time, I was at the hospital for roughly six hours. I was not fed and I wasn’t even offered the BairPaw gown to take home Plus, I was leaving a set of museum-calibre tonsils. That should’ve been worth something.
I wondered aloud if there wasn’t a suitable venue that I could arrange and save a few thousand, but it comes off as cheap. Or latter-day Steve McQueen.
Surgery was scheduled for 10:45 Tuesday morning. I was asked to arrive at 8:45 to squirm anxiously in the lobby. I don’t know what time I’d have been required to arrive had I not checked in two days early. My mother, who is retired, picked me up at my house and drove me to the hospital. Beyond accommodating, she volunteered to provide my transportation and wait during the procedure.
After thinking I’d be called any minute for the better part of two hours, I was called back around 11:oo. My mother accompanied me to serve as my memory and emotional support. As an empty nester with two reasonably adjusted adult children, I think my she was keen to demonstrate she still had her parenting chops.
As preparations ramped up, I was struck by the fact that each attendant asked me what I was having done. I really hoped the surgical plan wouldn’t be based on what I could recall from my consultation, and was sure the details were readily available in my file. I’m sure there is a reason they ask, but I never figured out what it was.
When I was wheeled into the operating room, I found it occupied by various people in surgical scrubs. I don’t recall formal introductions. One nurse asked me if I was ready though I’m not sure my response would’ve had any impact. The room was cold–like the dairy room at Costco. It was the sort of environment I’d love sleeping in each night. Anesthesia was administered and for a minute or so, I was in frosty-nosed bliss. The staff remained nonchalant; one nurse shopped for Mother’s Day gifts on her phone. I recall thinking that if I had a role in this, I’d be going over my notes one last time to make sure I understood what I would be required to do. Instead, casual conversation. And then, nothing.
* * * *
I woke to the sound of a male voice telling me all had gone well. My throat begged to disagree. I was asked to take deep breaths and was told I’d be going home soon. I don’t recall getting dressed; the next thing I remember was being wheeled through the lobby in a wheelchair as my mother retrieved the car. We went to the pharmacy across the street and then, home. I crawled into bed where I embarked upon a three-day torpor, moving from bed to sofa, subsisting on ice chips and bouillon. And pharmaceuticals.
Post-Tonsillectomy Pharmaceutical Reviews
Dexamethasone
Anti-nausea steroid administered via syringe. Harsh with notes of McCormick’s vodka and charcoal lighter fluid. Requires significant chaser. Enjoyability 0; Effectiveness 5 (0 to 5 scale).
Oxycodone
Thin-bodied liquid pain drug that opens with a hint of cherry. A non-existent, almost watery middle with notes of orange Triaminic. Part of that might be a bitterant to keep it from going down too easily. Enjoyability 5; Effectiveness 4.
CVS version of Tylenol non-dyed Liquid
The most quaffable of the drug buffet. Slightly syrupy with a mild bubble gum flavor. Clean finish. Enjoyability 4; Effectiveness 2
The Eight-Dollar Sucker
This looks like a two-cent DumDum sucker, but comes wrapped in foil. It would likely melt plastic and burn paper. The purpose is to numb the throat (and anything else it comes in contact with). Mildly grape-flavored with a harsh, chemical backbone. Enjoyability 1; Effectiveness 5.
With the government monitoring prescription drugs, doctors have become stingy with pain medicine and refills. My mother, who broke her femur several years ago, couldn’t get a refill on her pain meds. She’s now a heroin addict. That’s not true, but it’s easy to see how smack has come roaring back after near extinction and how black market Fentanyl has become a major problem. I followed the dosage instructions, but given the ineffectiveness of liquid Tylenol, I was concerned with running out of Oxycodone too soon.
As promised, the doctor was generous and I was granted a refill, which I picked up without hassle, though I arrived at the pharmacy with notarized documents and a copy of my clean criminal record. Eleven days later, my throat is still sore–mornings and evenings are the worst–and I’m walking at least every other day and still regaining my stamina. I’ve been surprised by the toll the procedure took on my entire body.
The recovery has been solid, if slow. The remnants of a sinus attack has complicated things. Congestion has broken and given way to the painful act of coughing. Snoring has been replaced (temporarily) by the gurgling of drainage—a quieter but more disconcerting bodily cacophony. The good news is that I’m sleeping through the night and waking up refreshed. When my energy has been restored, I’ll be a brand new man (like Brooks and Dunn).
I’ve written when I’ve had the strength to sit up. I finished Jefferson Cowie’s Stayin’ Alive and began Barney Hoskyns’s Hotel California. I spent a lot of time upstairs in the loft, listening to records and watching television. I’d planned to binge-watch Californication but didn’t get around to it. The discovery of Dave Volsky’s Backdoor changed my viewing plans, and along with my mother and wife, he deserves credit for assisting in my recovery.
While this may sound like something pornographic, or at a minimum, mildly risque, it is a treasure trove of restored sporting events from the 1970s and 1980s–often complete broadcasts–commercials included. I woke up on the sofa one morning at 4:oo having fallen asleep watching the 1978 Seahawks/Bears game. As far as I’m concerned, this is Nobel-calibre work.
With my return to work looming, I sit upstairs at the desk, finishing the recap of what has been an interesting couple of weeks. I’m spinning vinyl while Super Bowl V plays in the background. My post-op visit with the doctor is Monday, and I’m confident she will confirm what I suspect. That the surgery was a success.
