I had to wait a while before I could write about our New
Year’s Eve celebration. Not because I drank so much that I was still hung over.
Not because I had so much fun that I am only now sending out thank you notes
and finishing up my photo books.
No, it’s so I could get a solid hold on what reality I was
living that weekend and when I told you, I wanted to get it exactly right.
My husband had a nosebleed in the middle of December. He
suffered in silence, as it started in the middle of the night and all evidence
of it was gone by the morning. It was no more than a footnote over our morning
coffee.
That weekend he had another. I raise an eyebrow and wash a load of towels.
Still, only two nosebleeds. Not a huge deal but certainly
strange because I haven’t seen a nosebleed from him since his sinus surgery five years ago, which will live on in infamy. Because I will never forget what
a nightmare it was and I want to ensure he doesn’t either.
Christmas Eve comes, and my husband’s schnozzle decides it
has had enough of its quiet lifestyle and erupts like a volcano. This one has my attention. It’s
everywhere, it’s never-ending, and most importantly, it’s getting our clean, ready-for-company house all dirty. Time to
deploy the big girl panties.
We finish cleaning for the party and I wash my hands eleven
times (get it? Eleven? Nosebleeds?) and our Christmas Eve celebration
continues.
That night, we agree he probably should talk to the doctor
after the holidays about the nosebleeds. Someone who drives almost 3000 miles a
month for work does NOT want to get that type of nosebleed while driving.
During the week, I boil water and run a vaporizer until our
walls are dripping so I can put moisture in the air. He not only has been
dealing with the nosebleeds but also got the same illness I had and has been
coughing up a lung for the past two nights. It’s the dreaded man cold and I
mentally gird my loins.
The moist air doesn’t help. That Saturday I hear him
skittering down the hall to the bathroom and just know it’s happening again. A
half hour doesn’t seem like a very long time but when it looks like he’s losing
what looks like a gallon of blood, it’s an eternity. We’re getting to be
experts at managing them but definitely not happy about it. Plans to call the doctor
have been moved out of “maybe” into talks of Immediate Care instead, but it
stops and doesn’t come back so the talks stall.
New Years’ Eve dawns and over morning coffee, Joe decides to
celebrate early by having a party in his nose, with lots of streamers. It’s
made worse because he’s coughing so much but finally this one stops too. I
suggest a quick care visit but it’s vetoed. The nosebleed stops…
…only to start up again around seven that night and this
time, we don’t even need to discuss it before piling into the car to go to the
ER. We can’t get it stopped.
They put a sexy plastic ring on his nose that pinches his
nostrils shut but that doesn’t work. He graduates to level two; a nurse
fashions another one out of two tongue depressors which does the trick but
pinches his nose so tightly that he feels like he’s choking. He is, actually,
because since he can’t breathe through his nose, he’s got to breathe through
his mouth but guess what’s starting to clog his airway? Our friend, the helpful
blood clot, trying valiantly to stop the nosebleed.
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| Joe, being NOT HAPPY |
I’m going to pause here to confide that Joe doesn’t do well
with swallowing vitamins in the morning. One multivitamin and he’s choking and
gagging on it and can barely get it down. The sounds he makes are unlike
anything heard in nature, and they’re coupled with his bare foot pounding the
kitchen floor as if that will help. I’m pretty sure our neighbors hear this
morning routine. It cracks me up because I’m evil like that.
There are four ER nurses in the room with us now, all
telling my darling Pookie Pants to stay calm but when Joe feels the gigantic choking
blob in the back of his throat, despite the instructions, he most certainly does not stay
calm.
To my untrained eye, it appears our room has become the site
of a horrible butchering but boy howdy, does that get us ushered immediately
and with all due haste into an exam room. I realize that I’m going to have to
burn my clothes and Joe’s, but at least I know where all the antibacterial gel
is in the emergency room.
Long story short, we were there four hours. For three of
those hours, Joe’s nose was pinched shut and he still felt as if he were
suffocating. He paced. He griped. He paced. He fretted. He bled. However, all
his blood work is fine and the doctor finally comes in and numbs his offending nostril
so she can insert this long tampon cigarette-looking thing into his
nose. Once inserted, she is able to pump air into it and it conforms into the
shape of his nose voila, end of nosebleed. He’s much happier and we get to
leave. However, by this time it’s 10:30 p.m. and I don’t feel like cooking but
we stop at two different places and nothing’s open. Because it’s New Year’s
Eve.
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| He's such a good sport that he let me use this picture. That's TRUE LOVE, folks. |
I am so crabby. Sulky. I’m starving and at 10:45 p.m. I heat
up beef for sandwiches. We eat in relative silence and stonily clink glasses at
midnight.
The next day is January 1, which is the day my
side of the family celebrates Christmas. Joe has, up until now, said he was
going to go (even with that…thing in
his nose) but now he has changed his mind because he’s not “breathing” right.
This brings back horrid memories and PTSD flashbacks of his
deviated septum surgery. It was a truly dark week in history in the Cacciatore
household.
Still, I go through the motions of preparing for the ninety
minute trek into town. I make the jambalaya I am supposed to bring. I have all
the presents I’m supposed to bring all wrapped and organized, so I go take a
long bath while having a hot cup of tea. But I know what’s coming.
Joe is still not feeling well. He isn't going and he doesn’t want me to go. He
looks like a deer caught in the headlights at the thought of me leaving for the
day.
I will refrain from comment here because sometimes time does
not heal all wounds, and I was super upset because CHRISTMAS WITH MY FAMILY and I’m missing it.
However, I know a panic attack when I see one, and Joe is
having a big one. The look in my poor honey’s eyes when I say I’m leaving him
all day long is pure terror. I wouldn’t do this to an enemy; I certainly
wouldn’t do it to my husband. Whom I love. It’s a three hour round trip and my
husband, my true love, is convinced that he doesn’t have enough air.
NOTE: HE DOES. HE DOES HAVE ENOUGH AIR. HE REALLY,
REALLY DOES.
He just thinks he
doesn’t because we can’t take out the packing from his right nostril, and his
left is congested. For all of the soothing, understanding sounds I make, I
don’t get why he can’t OPEN HIS MOUTH AND BREATHE THAT WAY LIKE EVERYONE ELSE
DOES WHEN THEY HAVE A COLD.
However, see: panic
attack. I get it. I stay home.
I also pout and cry that day. I am miserable because I work
so hard to get just the perfect gifts, the funniest things, the most thoughtful;
and I have to send my jambalaya and my gifts into Joliet with my girls.
I miss seeing my brother open his “favorite child” pin, and
don’t get to see his kids open presents that were on their Toys r Us wish list.
I miss my sister and her kids opening carefully chosen silly mugs. I miss
sitting and joking around with my other five siblings because I just don’t see
them nearly enough and I like to be snarky in person, not just on Facebook.
But I do what any good wife would do. I take my husband’s
concerns seriously and hold his hand while we sit on the reclining loveseat so
he can relax enough to sleep because did I forget to mention? It’s Monday
afternoon, and Joe has not slept in about five days between his terrible cough
and the inability to breath. He hasn’t slept, like, at all. He can’t fall
asleep because he’s certain that the second he does, he’s going to stop
breathing altogether.
I think of all the soothing things I can do to calm the
panic attack he’s having. I give him ONE of my TWO XANAX which as anyone knows
is a terrible second only to missing Christmas. I pour him a lavender scented
bath and put on soothing music which helps for approximately seven seconds.
He’s back to panic mode before he’s even dried off and has his jammies on.
I find my blog on his deviated septum surgery, reread it,
and cannot believe the similarities between then and now. Folks, this is a
nightmare.
EXCEPT IT GETS SO
MUCH WORSE.
Monday at bedtime, the most horrible night of all, I
put on an ocean waves soundtrack, hoping that it will soothe his panic and
allow him (and me) to sleep. Joe sleeps for ten minutes at a time, waking up in
a panic every single time. He’s convinced that the ocean waves are sending him subliminal messages so I
have to turn that off. I warn caution him that I have to work on Tuesday
and that if he doesn’t let me sleep, I won’t be able to function. I make him
swear he’s going to let me sleep. He goes out onto the couch.
I get two hours of sleep before he
shakes me awake. “I’m not sure how I should be breathing.” It’s 1:30 a.m. and
we’re both exhausted and one of us is very angry. He won’t take a shot of
liquor to help him sleep. The Xanax has done nothing and he’s pacing like a
caged animal so I wrestle him down and force feed him a double dose of Nyquil,
which has absolutely no effect and as a matter of fact, seems to wind him up
even more.
The only thing keeping us going is the fact that we’re
going to the doctor’s in the morning so that he can take the packing out. The
rest of the night is ghastly. We’re both hallucinating from lack of sleep.
Tuesday morning, after a refreshing three hour rest, I dress
for work, (I think?) shove him in the car and drive to his doctor’s office
where we park our butts.
When the doctor finally is able to see him, they chat, Joe
is prescribed some cough syrup with codeine for the cough, and
then—blessedly—Doctor takes out the packing. (look away if you’re squeamish,
but gawd, I didn’t think he’d EVER finish pulling that thing out of Joe’s nose.
It was about the size of a rolling pin and about as big around.
The effect on my husband is galvanizing. It’s as if someone
literally has flipped a switch. His color comes back almost immediately and
he’s showing more clarity than I’ve seen in a week. I take him back home to
drop him off because although he’s going to take a sick day so that he can
sleep, I myself cannot call in sick. Despite trying to keep a brave face, I’m
so tired I can barely see
straight. I mainline coffee on the way to work.
Five hours later, I’m uneasy because I haven’t heard from
him despite a few texts and a quick voicemail. Has he had another nosebleed? Is
he even now face down, head in a towel, in the hallway? DID HE GET BLOOD ON OUR
NEW COUCH?
The last one spurs me into action and I call him again. A
different man answers the phone. He sounds—dare I say—perky. Happy. “Boy, I
feel so much better,” he crows. “I was able to sleep.” I repress the urge to
tell him he’s had more sleep in the past few hours than I got all night. Good thing I’m at work
because I’m rolling my eyes.
“I don’t feel like I’m gasping for air anymore,” he
continues happily. “Of course, the doctor did say my airway was probably
compromised because of my cough." Of course he did, I think. His doctor is a
man so he is a little more likely to empathize with the man cold.
But here’s what matters; there’s no more panic in his voice.
While still hoarse, his voice sounds hopeful, like there’s an end to the past
couple weeks of wheezing, coughing, phlegm, and let’s not forget, nosebleeds.
His optimistic tone buoys me, much to my surprise. Sounds
like sleep is on the horizon for me too. My eyes well up in gratitude. I tell Joe to
try to get another nap in and turn on that ocean waves soundtrack—maybe it will
tell him to sweep the floor and do the dishes before I get home from work.
*not a man cold, though. No one can be as sick as a man.
PPS...also published on Love, Lust and Laptops today.
About the author:
Christine Cacciatore is a multi-published author who lives—and loves—to
write. Together with her sister, Jennifer Starkman, she has published the
magical novels Baylyn, Bewitched and Cat, Charmed, with the third book Elise, Evermore coming out soon. On her own, she
has written Noah Cane’s Candy, a sassy holiday short romance and Knew You’d Come, a spicy
paranormal romance novella. Also, Chris ventured into the Kindle Worlds Mary
O’Reilly paranormal series and has written Trouble Lake and Grave Injury. They’re the perfect books to curl up with any time
of year but especially Halloween…because they’re chock full of ghosts!
Chris is a member of the In Print Professional Writer’s Group in
Rockford, IL and the Chicago Writer’s Association. In her spare time, Chris
enjoys writing, reading, and coloring in her grandchildren’s coloring books
with the good crayons. Chris is married to a devastatingly handsome man
she met on eHarmony, has three children and a gigantic black dog who helps her
pack lunches in the morning. She also has four of the most beautiful,
intelligent grandchildren in the world, and their antics keep her in stitches.
