The inside of my nose is an interesting place.
It isn’t every day that you get to look at the internal structures of your body. Today was one such day. In an effort to discover the reason for persistent sinus issues, I was introduced to the joys of the nasoscopy. Now, the spell check feature is arguing with me about the spelling of that word, but according to the National Cancer Institute, I am correct. Essentially, it’s a tube with a light and a camera, which is hooked up to a monitor and gets shoved into your head via your nostril. This is a most bizarre and unsettling feeling, even after the revolting, revolting anesthetic spray to which I was subjected beforehand. Actually, I think that of the two indignities, I would rather prefer just to have the tube stuffed up my nose without that spray. I’m sure it would be more uncomfortable that way, it may even hurt, but at least I wouldn’t feel like I was drowning in my own saliva, which I couldn’t seem to swallow .. and I probably wouldn’t sound like a chipmunk afterward either.
I don’t like the doctor. Well, that isn’t strictly true. There have been several doctors and medical professionals who were perfectly pleasant and likable. I don’t like the potential for devastatingly bad news which the doctor represents. I have to be half-dead, or have a list of things a mile long, before I manage to get myself to a doctor, and I’m always convinced that it’s going to be worst case scenario. Dr. Tim, whilst being very pleasant, informative and straightforward, also sprayed the most revolting stuff up my nose and stuck a tube into my head .. at the end of which I was informed that there was nothing unusual to be seen, so I would need to go and stick my head in another machine so we could get a better look. Now, the CT doesn’t scare me, because I’ve been there before and I know what it’s all about, but what it may show scares the hell out of me. I’ve been joking about at long last having proof that there is, indeed, a brain in my head and not just a very tired, 35 year old hamster in his little wheel, desperately in need of a rest. I tell jokes to distract me from the fact that I am quite concerned about what might be going on inside my head.
I have to wonder, why can it never be that something is wrong with, say, my little finger? I could live with that. “I see, doctor, the little finger has to come off, you say? Right-o then.” It’s not really that big of a deal, in the grand scheme of things. I can live a fairly normal existence missing one finger. But no. It’s never that simple. The last few years all of my issues have been “reproductive”, in one form or another, and that absolutely terrifies me. I’m a superstitious kind of person, so I’m not even going to say “everything has been fine with that stuff up until now”, (please note, universe, I did not actually make that statement) but the ever-present possibility of something going horribly wrong there gnaws at the back of my brain pretty much constantly. Now, something might actually be gnawing at my brain (damn that hamster).
I suppose there is no point in pontificating or worrying about what might be. There’s nothing to be done until they point the x-rays at my noggin and delve into the unfathomable cavities within my skull. Still .. worrying is what I do.
I guess I’d better make that appointment.