Ailments

Rhinosinusitis

Rhinosinusitis 9

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Warning: This post goes into great detail about my recent battle with my sinuses. If you don’t like reading about snot, you should probably stay far, far away.

*****

Despite my ingenious strategy of blowing my nose into a t-shirt, things on the clogged sinuses front have yet to improve.

Around 4:30 this morning I sprang up from my bed, realizing my cheekbones felt as if they had been repeatedly kicked by a donkey with really strong thighs. I was experiencing a splitting headache, and intense sinus pain all the way down to my back molars. Every attempt to blow my nose felt as if someone was stabbing a rusty screwdriver deep into the crevices of my brain.

Aside from being quite uncomfortable, the symptoms listed above concern me as I’m on my last day of a heavy-duty course of antibiotics. If those haven’t cleared this up, what on earth will? Scott and I are traveling to Seattle later this week, and I’m just not sure my sinuses can handle flying at high altitude in this condition. Overcome with panic and frustration, I leap out from under the covers and get to work.

5:03 am: Fumble through the dark medicine cabinet in search of the Sinus Congestion & Pain medicine I picked up at Wal-Mart. Take twice the recommended dosage.

5:05 am: Fill my Neti-Pot with saline solution and get to work. If you’re not familiar with the Neti-Pot, it’s basically a miniature tea-pot you use to irrigate your sinuses. Yes, this is a real thing. While it’s incredibly disgusting and quite uncomfortable, it actually works wonders.

5:07 am: Halfway through the irrigation of nostril number two, I remember a story I read on the internet about the two people who died from using Neti-pots.

5:08 am: I enter the bedroom in hysterics, explaining to Scott that the reason the antibiotics won’t work is obviously because I’m dying from a deadly amoeba that somehow found its way into my Neti-pot.

5:09 am: Scott assures me that deadly amoebas are only found in certain types of tap water. He makes a promise that the Dasani water I used is sterile and free of any life threatening bacteria.

5:09:30 am: I roll my eyes and explain that I only irrigate my nostrils with Smart Water, just like Jennifer Aniston does. Duh.

5:11 am: I complete the irrigation process while Jolie looks on in disgust. If dogs could talk, I’m pretty sure she’d ask why there’s tapioca pudding pouring from my nostrils.

(Normally I’d apologize for that visual — but I’m so proud of finding such an accurate description that I’m going to stand by this one. Sorry…but I’m not sorry.)

5:13 am: While my Neti-pot provides a small dose of relief, I’m still experiencing 99% of my symptoms. I enter the office, turn on my computer, and being doing some Web MD sleuthing.

5:16 am: Diagnose myself with a raging case of Rhinosinusitis.

5:17 am: Google “Rhinosinusitus” and am disappointed to learn that it’s not related to rhinoplasty, so I won’t be getting a medically necessary nose job after all. (Also disappointed to learn I didn’t catch this infection from a rhinoceros. At least that would have been a cool story.)

5:20 am: Shut off the computer after realizing my horrible fate. A sinus infection that doesn’t respond to antibiotics is typically viral or fungal. As if the thought of fungus in my nose isn’t horrible enough, I learn that these type of infections can last up to four weeks. Four weeks. Being that I’m only 11 days in, I could have a long ways to go.

5:21 am: Catch Jolie sniffing and possibly licking my t-shirt handkerchief as I crawl into bed. (Confession: I’m too miserable to actually do anything about it. Dogs can’t get sinus infections, anyway…I checked.)

5:22 am: I slather the lower half of my face with a thick coating of vaseline. All this nose blowing has made it extremely chapped, and petroleum jelly seems to be the only thing that adequately soothes and moisturizes. Scott remarks that I look as if I dove head-first into a giant bucket of greasy fried chicken.

5:22:20 am: Calmly explain that I DON’T EVEN LIKE FRIED CHICKEN!!!

5:23 am: Scott is kind enough to fetch me some water and take my temperature as an apology for the fried chicken comment. According to him, my temp is perfectly normal. (Although he did make me use our meat thermometer from Thanksgiving, so I’m not sure the result is totally accurate.)

5:25 am: My sinuses creak loudly as I feel them expand and contract. I’m trying my best to fall back asleep, but it’s really difficult when it feels as if there’s a dozen angry air bubbles wedged deep in your airways. I’m upset that I feel this crummy. Upset that I’ll have to cancel my morning Turbo Kick class. Upset that I may have to actually get on an airplane in this condition.

But mostly I’m upset that rhinosinusitis and rhinoplasty are not the same thing. After all the pain I’ve endured, I think we can all agree that I’ve earned that nose job.

(Just kidding…I actually kind of like my nose the way it is. I mean…when it’s not full of tapioca pudding, and all.)

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Like a handkerchief….only bigger. (And wearable.)

Like a handkerchief….only bigger. (And wearable.) 11

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The information I’m about to share with you is beyond disgusting…yet I also feel there’s a helpful tip in the midst of it all, so I’m risking my reputation in hopes that someone might benefit from the knowledge I’ve gained.

Here goes nothing.

Despite the massive amounts of Emergen-C I’ve been guzzling as of late, my immune system seems to be down for the count this year. I’ve already been sick twice, most recently with a nasty sinus bug that settled in on Thanksgiving Eve, and has yet to pack its bags and get the heck out of my respiratory system.

As you can guess, there’s been a great deal of nose blowing going down around here. While this has created multiple inconveniences (the embarrassment of blowing my nose repeatedly while wearing a microphone during Turbo Kick, having a nose so chapped it required prescription chapstick from Scott’s clinic), there are two unique problems I’ve encountered that may surprise you.

The first is that we have no tissue in our house. I’ve never believed tissue to be a necessity, which I’m assuming is the result of a childhood spent in a tissue-free environment. My father, too cheap to spend money on name-brand Kleenex, would always encourage us to “just use toilet paper.” Like it or not, this aversion to boxes of tissue has stuck with me through adulthood.

The second problem is that I have a habit of purchasing ridiculously expensive toilet paper. While I can’t seem to justify dropping a few bucks on a box of Kleenex, I firmly believe that life’s too short to clean yourself with sandpaper. Once again, I’m assuming this behavior stems from my childhood. Mark always purchased commercial grade TP from Costco that felt strikingly similar to the tissue paper used to fill gift bags. Let’s just say it wasn’t comfortable.

While using plush toilet paper for it’s intended purpose doesn’t bother me, going through a roll and a half in two hours due to a sinus infection feels downright wasteful. About halfway through the third roll, I was struck with a semi-brilliant idea.

I’ll just blow my nose into a t-shirt!

Before you freak out, there’s one thing I need to explain. It wasn’t my t-shirt. It was Scott’s t-shirt. (I have some standards here, people.)

I simply toted the t-shirt from room to room throughout the week, emptying my nasal passages into its soft cotton exterior whenever necessary. I’ve found the benefits of swapping tissue for a t-shirt to be so plentiful, I’ve gone and made a 7-point list:

1. Using a t-shirt you already own saves money.

2. You’ll waste less paper while decreasing your risk of running out of toilet paper at an inopportune moment.

3. The t-shirt can be washed and worn after the fact. (Just use extra detergent and really hot water.)

4. Cotton is far gentler on your skin than even the softest tissue paper, resulting in less irritated nostrils.

5. You can bring the t-shirt to bed with you, eliminating the need for nightly runs to the bathroom to fetch tissue when your nose is plugged.

6. You can also bring the t-shirt with you on a six-hour road trip. You’re friends totally won’t mind as you’ll hide it discretely in the foot well of the backseat. (Um…not that I would know or anything.)

7. You can write a blog about your ingenious discovery and the entire internet will think you’re really cool.

See? T-shirts are totally the new handkerchiefs.

I’d like to close by offering one final tip. If at all possible, try to avoid using a t-shirt bearing the name of a University you attended.

The actual t-shirt. I’m not revealing whether it’s clean or not.

There’s something about violently emptying your sinuses into your alma mater that feels wrong on a variety of levels.

(Sorry, Syracuse.)

*****

Main photo by  anyjazz65

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“Beauty takes pain”

“Beauty takes pain” 9

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Disclaimer: You may not want to read the following post if you have issues with looking at unsettling photos of  feet. My feet, if we’re getting technical.

(There. You’ve officially been warned.)

(Umm…you also may not want to read this if you’re Tory Burch.)

(Although I think we all know Tory Burch doesn’t read this blog.)

(Although if you somehow are Tory Burch…I would love some free handbag swag. Particularly the ‘Amanda’ leather hobo in black…but only if you have, you know, extras lying around or something.)

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“Beauty takes pain, Katrina.”

These are the words my mother would speak to me each time she mistakenly burnt my forehead with the curling iron.  While Mama Leslie possesses many valuable skills, maneuvering heated styling tools is certainly not one of them. Unfortunately, as a young child I didn’t know any better, and my skin was frequently scalded on accident. (I think this is the reason my parents insisted I have bangs until the age of thirteen.)

Whether or not you’ve been the victim of a curling iron, I think we can all agree that at times, our appearance takes presidence over our level of physical comfort. Need proof? Look no further than Botox, bikini waxes, tattoos and even high-heeled footwear. Looking good comes at a price, and often requires a maximum dose of extra-strength Tylenol.

But when does the price become too high to pay? There’s a significant amount of grey area surrounding the line that divides reasonable from ridiculous — ultimately, the level of discomfort we choose to subject ourselves to is a personal choice. Pain is a relative concept, and it’s up to us as individuals to define our own boundaries in regards to the sacrifices we’re willing to make for style.

I’m beginning to learn that as I grow older, my tolerance for pain is rapidly shrinking. If “beauty takes pain” then I might as well resign to a life of homeliness–or at the very least, a life of ugly shoes.

Some of you may remember Scott’s grand gesture on Valentine’s Day last year. (Truly, it was less of an act of love than it was a tactic to avoid a Katrina-style meltdown on the most romantic day of the year, but I take what I can get these days.) I’d been pining over a pair of Tory Burch Reva flats for months, and had begged Scott to gift them to me as a Valentine’s Day “surprise”. Buying the shoes ended up being a huge investment not only because of their $195 price tag — Scott was involved in a minor car accident while picking them up, which ended up costing an additional $500.

My husband literally went through hell to get the shoes, and while I did feel a small tinge of guilt, the vast majority of my being was utterly delighted with my new footwear.

Until I tried them on.

Anyone who owns a pair of Tory flats can attest to the fact that they are about as comfortable as a Chinese torture device. It wasn’t a sizing issue — the pair Scott picked up for me fit perfectly–yet they still hurt more than salt in a paper cut. I chalked it up to the notion that they weren’t yet broken in, and wore them religiously for the next month, assuming they would gradually grow more comfortable.

This never happened. I could only keep the flats on for an hour or two before they started wreaking havoc on my poor little feet.  At this point it was too late to take them back, yet I didn’t want Scott to think I was ungrateful for the $200 ballet flats–especially as purchasing them was partially responsible for a $500 fender bender on Interstate 94. To solve for both problems, I began only wearing the shoes on occasions I knew would be three hours or less–this way Scott would see that I was enjoying his present, yet I wouldn’t be wearing the shoes long enough to put me at risk for an above-the-toe amputation.

For the past nine months, I have carried on this hopeless charade. Most recently, I wore the shoes to Scott’s 30th birthday celebration in Omaha. Things were going swimmingly until we hit up a local dance club at the end of the soiree. For just under two hours I shook my body to the the blaring house music as vigorously as possible, with no concern for the pain radiating through both of my feet. (The fact that I had been wearing a skirt made entirely of leather fringe may have encouraged such wild, irreverent hip shaking.)

A few hours later I should have been sound asleep. Instead, I found myself lying miserably awake in my sister-in-law’s guest room, unable to drift off to peaceful slumber as my big toes were throbbing furiously. Not that I would know…but I think it may have been almost as bad as childbirth.

I blame this on you, Tory Burch.

The pain continued for a good 48-hours before eventually subsiding. I had honestly forgotten about the entire incident until last night when I went to remove my toenail polish.

I’m sorry you had to see this.

No… I don’t have toenail fungus. The discoloration you see above is a bruise that was given to me by those freaking shoes.

Um…I mean the beautiful pair of flats my husband so generously gifted me for Valentine’s day after weeks and weeks of relentless begging and if I’m being totally honest, a couple of “motivational” threats on my part.

(I suppose this is the karma that happens to those who guilt-trip their spouses into buying designer shoes.)

Oh…and my toenails are white at the top because they’ve been covered in nail polish for five years straight. The woman at the nail salon assures me this is normal and will go away after a few weeks without polish. Unfortunately, that won’t be happening anytime soon as it’s going to take at least six months for these hideous bruises to grow out.

When my mom said “beauty takes pain”, I don’t think she meant that cute shoes are worth toes that appear to have severe frostbite. It is for this reason that I’ve ultimately decided to hang up my Tory Burch flats for good. Yes, this will probably upset my husband, and yes, I’m finally admitting the shoes (which were my idea in the first place) were a complete and utter waste of two-hundred dollars. But at the end of the day, if you don’t have your big toes, you truly have nothing at all.

And so, if ever I am fortunate enough to have a little girl of my own, each time I accidentally burn her forehead with the curling iron, I will say “Beauty takes pain, honey. But remember…if you don’t have your big toes, you have nothing at all.”

I know…I should totally write a book on parenting. (And use the royalties to buy designer shoes that are actually comfortable.)

****

Main photo by  Annie Mole

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I ran out of words 0

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A funny thing happened to me today.

I ran out of words.

Anyone who knows me realizes this is highly unusual — I’m kind of notorious for not being able to shut my trap, and that’s putting it delicately. But today? Today I have nothing to say, nothing to write and nothing to blog.

I’m quite literally fresh out of words.

That phrase makes it sound as if words are like eggs or flour. Something you occasionally use up and need to replenish with a quick trip to the store, or a knock on a friendly neighbor’s door.

I didn’t really want to borrow words from my neighbor. Not that I have anything against him, but he swears a lot, and this blog has standards.

Kind of.

I was left with the option of picking up  words at the supermarket, but feared plagiarizing the National Inquirer on the Internet could have serious legal consequences, not to mention the fact that the checker would totally think less me for buying a copy. (And let’s be honest. Nothing is worse than a judgmental stare from a supermarket clerk. Anyone who’s ever gone through the express checkout with nothing but tequila, Preparation H, and Frosted Flakes knows this.)

All jokes aside, I really do think something is wrong with me, and I’m not just talking about writer’s block. Or something you would need Preparation H for. For instance, last night Scott bought a king size sleeve of Reese’s Peanut Butter cups and I didn’t even want any.

I rest my case.

In an effort to pinpoint my mysterious ailment, I found myself returning to the doctor I’ve been seeing for years.

You might know him as the WebMD Symptom Checker.

I entered “lack of appetite”, “reduced productivity” and “difficulty concentrating” as my symptoms. When asked if my difficulty concentrating was the result of scuba diving, I obviously checked “yes” as technically, I did go scuba diving in Mexico a few months ago, and I didn’t want to risk an inaccurate diagnosis as the result of not disclosing my full medial history.

My result?

Postpartum depression.

So, either WebMD went to medial school in Honey Boo Boo’s back yard, or I have a really bad memory.

Here’s hoping it’s the first one.

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