Lookin' Like a Fool With a Balloon Up Your Nose

I am Locutus of Borg. (The people around here didn't get it. I also considered calling it a 3D tat.)

Well, anyway, it was better than a ferret.

I've already said the balloon didn't hurt. It did itch, though. A lot. I sneezed more in a few days than I normally do in a week, perhaps more than I normally do in a month. And I kept thinking I might sneeze the thing out, or at least dislodge it and restart the bleeding, so I made a point of sneezing with my mouth wide open just to let the force go out that way instead.

It wasn't fun.

It also interfered with my sleep, so I was even goofier than usual. I couldn't wear sunglasses at all comfortably, either, because they pressed down on the wrong part of my nose. This is usually a sunny place this time of year, but we had some clouds that let me go without glasses much of the time.

And then there were the special effects. Oozing was a bit scary, though it was mostly serum after the first day or so, and I could feel fluid movement around the balloon, which I pumped up as much as I dared. (This wasn't much, since pumping always pushed something unpleasant out the back of my nose and down my throat.)

When the time came (Tuesday, Aug. 3) to have the thing removed, I had a terrible suspicion that the bleeding would start all over again. It didn't help that when I got there, the blood-pressure monitor gave a higher reading than when I showed up Friday evening. Mechanical error, I think: it took three tries to get a reading it liked, all in close succession, which is bound to produce some observer effects: compressing the flesh and blood vessels a couple times before taking the official reading (to say nothing of the patient stress produced) probably throws off the result. (Later readings were much lower.)

Be that as it may, I got a surprise: the balloon does hurt coming out, and the doctor I had this time didn't mention that. Probably a good thing, too: I didn't worry in advance. It wasn't scream-out-loud painful, but it definitely brought tears to my eyes. The nostril just vacated also felt raw and hollowed-out, which wasn't a surprise.

And now? No bleeding, and I'm shooting a saline solution up my nose a few times a day as a doctor-prescribed hobby. Could have been worse.

For my next amazing feat, I'll probably try a review or so, since I'm way behind. I'll get back to Dark World next week, God willing.

ER: A Cautionary Tale With Life Lessons

I hate to admit that I can't find a picture of the thing on Wikipedia, but they decided to stick a closed, inflatable tube up my nose to provide uniform pressure on the nasal walls.

Okay, fine.

The problem was the presentation, so to speak. When you torture someone, it's helpful to paint a gruesome picture of the procedure first, because anticipation is worse than what you actually do, and the fear produced enhances the pain.

So the doctor showed me a curious object probably on loan from some probe-happy aliens. He informed me that he was going to stick the whole thing all the way up my nose, it would hurt, and I would yell and scream and generally act aggressively peevish, but he would stuff it up there anyway.

My response (no machismo required, I was just tired of the whole business) was to wish he'd just get on with it. I didn't verbalize my feelings, because it's a bad idea to annoy someone who's about to stick something up your nose.

For what it's worth, if I had to do the same thing to someone else, I wouldn't show him the thing; I'd just say, "I need to stick something up your nose, and it'll be unpleasant but quick." And then I'd do it. This is Lesson One.

It didn't hurt. Seriously, it was really uncomfortable, but it didn't actually hurt. I never had plans to take up a hobby along those lines ("Let's see what I can stick up my nose today!"), but I'm dead-set against the idea now.

Then they talked about how I'd get pain meds (Hello! Not hurting, thank you!), and I mentioned that I don't even use aspirin.

I don't know how long he'd been up, but he wasn't paying attention. "Oh, don't use aspirin. It'll make the bleeding worse."

If you're a doctor, always listen to the patient. He may be an idiot, but even so he's an idiot with useful inside information. If you're the patient, try getting the doctor to repeat what you've just said. It will be either entertaining or exasperating, depending on your mindset. This is Lesson Two.

The good news is that I'd arrived at about 8:30 pm (perhaps slightly before) and didn't leave until nearly 11, but my boss (and ride back to work) was still in the waiting room and in a reasonably good mood. Lesson Three: work for someone who doesn't mind taking you into ER and waiting for a few hours. They're hard to find, but it's worth it. He was even a congenial companion on the way back.

Anyway, next time: living with a balloon up your nose.

Adventures in ER

You see, I happen to work for my veterinarian: I'm good with animals, and I do kennel work. (I have no idea why animals so seldom figure in my stories. Few of my characters have pets.) Since I was about to leave a little early--and with blood on the floor, yet--I thought I should explain what was going on. He said he would be over in a few minutes and could give me a ride to the emergency room if necessary.

It's hard being a vet sometimes: you can't give people medical advice, not legally, anyway. So I asked him what he would do in my situation--I had the flow down to a trickle at the moment, and I hoped I could get it stopped and just go home. He said he would go to ER because (1) two major nosebleeds in less than a week would worry him and (2) it might be hypertension related, and that should be checked anyway.

Well, that's what he would do, and it seemed reasonable to me. I still almost tried to make it home on my own, but by then I had agreed to the ride and was too ashamed to back out.

It was a good thing, too: about a minute or two into the trip, the bleeding started up again in earnest, and I had my hands full containing it with some paper towels brought from work. We were making good progress until we found ourselves behind three other vehicles and a slow-moving tractor, whose driver was slow to grasp the concept of pulling over to let others pass.

It was a relatively slow night in ER, I'm pleased to say. We had the place pretty much to ourselves initially, so I got right in. The sight of all the blood helped.

They tried clamping my nose shut, but no luck. They asked a bunch of questions I had already answered: what was going on when the bleeding started? Nothing. I had taken a bite out of a cookie when the trickle began. I wasn't hitting myself in the face with a bat or anything. Someone commented that all the fingers on my right hand were bloody (the same was true of those on my left hand--thanks for noticing) and asked whether I had been picking my nose. By great good fortune (which also had me in clean underwear, as it happened), no. My boss, the vet, found this reasoning amusing afterward: did they think I was pioneering a four-fingered nose-picking technique? It's actually just what happens when you spend nearly an hour holding paper towels under your bleeding nose.

No blunt trauma, either. I think I would've noticed.

For that matter, I wasn't using or being subjected to psychic powers at the time, either--so far as I know.

But my blood pressure was high, and not all of that could be explained by the bleeding and the ER experience. The last doctor I dealt with (not Friday night but the following Tuesday) seemed to think dryness was an issue as well.

But in the meantime, they needed to stop the bleeding, and they opted for a special method beyond the Vulcan Nose Clamp.

It wasn't Cardinal Fang and the Comfy Hanky.

Tune in next time to see what it was.

If it bleeds...

The journalistic saying is, "If it bleeds, it leads": gore sells, and I'm not just talking about Al.

Which brings us to my nose. As I've said before, I'm humble about my nose--I tend not to give it much thought. But when it starts spurting blood and won't stop, that does get my attention.

So I'm going to do something unusual: I seldom post about what I'm doing at the moment or how my day went, but this time I will take up a few posts with a true story of nosebleed. How riveting!

I had a bad nosebleed July 27, but anyone can have a nosebleed now and then. I had no further problem until that Friday, when I had a minor nosebleed in the early afternoon, but it stopped pretty quickly, and I thought no more of it. But that evening, it started up again and just wouldn't stop.

I was just finishing one of my part-time jobs--around here, you pretty much have to do a few part-time jobs; full-time ones are hard come by--when it just started trickling down. It didn't take long to realize that it wasn't minor this time.

I won't take long on the proper treatment for nosebleed; I did the nose pinch, which might have worked better if I'd been a Vulcan, but it didn't solve the problem. I could get the flow to decrease briefly now and then, and during such lulls I made some phone calls. One was to my veterinarian.

I'll explain that next time.

Dark World: Fool's Errand

(The story begins here.)
(The last recap is here.)

Dr. Fleming made no comment; he simply followed as Darren left the driveway and headed toward some trees. “Lassiter is still wearing shoes he probably bought in Germany,” Darren said. “Their tracks are rather distinctive if you look at them. He evidently saw something more interesting than anything at the back of the house—the screams and other noises would have ended by the time he got here anyway.”

He stopped suddenly, and Dr. Fleming almost ran into him. “I assumed you would continue your explanation, Victor. What did you find that reveals Dr. FitzHugh’s location?”

“A word—part of a word—scrawled on the back of one page. I think he meant to leave a clue in case something happened, but then he changed his mind. From what I’ve seen of your friend, she would not honor a signed request to stay away.”

“Certainly not now. She is rather headstrong.” Darren resumed his trailing, and Dr. Fleming followed in expository mode.

“So the clue had to be removed by stealth. I suspect the intruder was holding the papers because he was looking for the right one to tear: the word was written in one corner, and he may well have meant only to tear it off and leave the papers themselves behind. The change probably would have gone unnoticed or at least been considered unimportant. But when he was interrupted, he had to act as though he wanted the notes as a whole.”

“And the magic word is?”

“Look for yourself.” The doctor handed him a tiny scrap of paper that read LANTIS.

“‘Atlantis’?” Darren asked.

“I think so. See the faint hint of a crossbar to the left—the top of the T?”

“Yes. And that leads to the question of whether it’s the legendary Atlantis, which might be hard to find, or our Atlantis, which is relatively close by.”

Dr. Fleming began to reply, but just then Lassiter burst upon them. “It is you! You wouldn’t believe…” A glance at their faces deflated his elation, and he asked, “Is she all right?”

“Yes,” Dr. Fleming muttered, “and the fact you didn’t need much prompting to ask keeps me from trying to beat you into a semblance of a gentleman. Where did you go?”

“After a madman—and I think he’d have a lot to tell us if I could get him to talk coherently for a few moments.”

Next: The Madman and Atlantis

[I'll break off here for a few days; the next arc will probably be a bit disturbing, and I thought I'd relate a personal adventure from the last week or so. Also, I do need to get in a few more reviews. I suppose I ought to intersperse reviews and stories.]

Dark World: Lassiter's Trail

(The story begins here.)
(The last recap is here.)

“So what is your theory about how the attacker entered the study?” Darren asked as soon as they were a safe distance from the house.

“Haven’t you thought of it?” Dr. Fleming countered with evident surprise. “It’s obvious: he got in by using the password.”

“You mean whoever is holding Dr. FitzHugh made him talk?”

“I mean that Dr. FitzHugh willingly gave the man the information.”

They had arrived at the rear of the house below the shuttered window, but the remark distracted Darren. “It was his idea? Why do you think so?”

“Look at the sequence of events: the so-called attacker never really harmed Miss FitzHugh; even the blow to the head will certainly prove trivial. I only suggested a further medical examination to keep her out of our way. Whatever doctor she picks will certainly think me a cretin for sending her on. The wound looks bad initially, but a reasonably close inspection will prove otherwise.

“This demonstrates that the attacker concentrated on trying to escape with the papers, and he tried to frighten Miss FitzHugh away. Think about it: he must have been very competent to get in there so stealthily, yet a competent assassin could have killed her at various points. If he had killed her, he would now have the papers. So not killing her was more important than the apparent primary objective, getting the papers. Doesn’t that, together with his ability to enter the room in the first place, suggest something?”

“Only that someone wants her kept alive, though I admit the opposition we’ve encountered and heard about doesn’t seem to mind killing.” Darren paused as he examined the tracks. “Just a muddle. I don’t see Lassiter’s prints here.”

“If her father is behind the attempted theft, it tells us some other things—one of which I’ve already confirmed,” Dr. Fleming continued doggedly.

“Which way would you have gone to reach the back of the house—deasil or withershins?”

“Kindly do not gibber.”

“Right or left?”

The doctor pondered briefly. “Approaching from the right would give better cover, but the left gives a better view.”

“Which is why I came left. I should’ve gone right: Lassiter likes cover.”

“Splendid. Anyway, if her father’s behind the incident, why did he want his notes taken?”

“Of course, the driveway continues to the garage and some other outbuildings on the right, so there would be no tracks,” Darren muttered absently. Then he shifted topics before his friend could be tempted too far. “She already knows the information, and so does he. I don’t see the point.”

“He didn’t want her involved, and the notes give a clue to his whereabouts.”

Darren glanced at him almost skeptically; then he looked back at the ground and smiled. “I now have a clue to Lassiter’s whereabouts. He never went near the back of the house.”

Next: Fool's Errand

[I meant to give links for the Neo Patwa material before, and I have now done so. It is going to be a bit of a running gag.]

Dark World: Comparing Notes

(The story begins here.)
(The last recap is here.)

“At least Hancock was fair about it,” Clio said a few minutes later, “especially to a mere slip of a girl. He didn’t even complain about being thrown into the hall. Still, I doubt they will find the real attacker.”

“I doubt he’s given up looking for Lassiter,” Darren commented as he hurried through copying another page of the notes.

Dr. Fleming, who had long before scientifically trained his memory to be photographic, merely studied a page of the vocabulary. “Neither should we,” he said without looking up.

“You think he’s been kidnapped?”

“He hasn’t returned, though the police have left. There is no reason for him to remain in hiding.”

“Unless he sees a threat we cannot, such as a few leftover policemen waiting in ambush.”

“He would have signaled us somehow. I would have; you would have. He isn’t that inferior.”

“What about Father?” Clio asked, clearly a bit annoyed. “We know he’s missing.”

“If Lassiter has been kidnapped, it’s quite likely connected to your father’s disappearance,” Dr. Fleming replied. “And Lassiter’s case being more recent, he should be easier to find. As for you, despite your splendid constitution, you really should be examined more thoroughly. I didn’t bring a fluoroscope with me. By the time you have been properly diagnosed, we should know what has happened to Lassiter.”

“Darren?” Her tone was simultaneously icy and seething.

“He’s the doctor, Clio. And he’s probably right about Lassiter: if he has been kidnapped, finding him could lead to your father. If Lassiter hasn’t been snatched, finding him won’t delay us. Then we can head south, if need be, to track your father down.”

“And where would I be?”

“You can follow us in your own machine, if you wish. I suppose Rosa would rather stay here.” A quick glance told him he was wrong. “You can work that out between you. There will be danger either way, but it should be safer here.”

“They won’t return for the notes?”

“I doubt it. Now that they know that we know the notes are important, it should be obvious that we would copy them.”

Clio pondered this briefly, but it was Rosa who answered. “How did they get in here in the first place?”

“We have experience with people appearing out of nowhere.”

“And always outside,” Dr. Fleming added.

“So far, yes. We don’t know they can’t turn up inside a building.”

The doctor’s only response was a look that Darren recognized: he had an alternative explanation that he wasn’t about to air in mixed company.

“That sounds dangerous,” Clio commented.

“It isn’t,” the doctor replied. “I can think of quite boring explanations for what happened here, and we haven’t had any such manifestations for a while. I don’t believe you will be in any danger here.”

Darren nodded, and they took their leave as quickly and quietly as possible over the fulminations and protests of the two women.

Next: Lassiter's Trail