Things no one thinks to tell you about your adult tonsillectomy

I’ve spent the last (almost) four weeks documenting exactly how recovery has gone after I had my tonsils removed at the foolish age of 37. While my recovery has been smooth, I hit upon quite a few surprises along the way, and found myself overflowing with questions that weren’t always easy to google answers for. So I’ve made a list! In case anyone else finds them awake on a steroids-high at 3am googling “why is my tongue white?”

1. DRINK DRINK DRINK

Okay, so they totally tell you this, but it is SO important I’m going to tell you too. It hurts. Do it anyway. I asked the doctor if I could somehow inflict damage upon myself by trying too hard to drink through the pain. He said no. Drink so you have to get up and pee every couple hours. If you’re not peeing every couple hours, drink more. It will help you get well faster. Do it.

2. Your drugs might make you sick.
Chances are good your doc will prescribe you some very nice painkillers. Narcotics. Y’know, opioides. These drugs have a reputation both for being so addictive they’re causing the downfall of society, and also of causing nausea in certain people. It’s common to feel nauseated in the first 30 or so hours after your surgery because of the anesthesia, but if the nausea continues or makes it impossible for you to keep your drugs and water down, call your doctor. Even at 2am. They pay people to answer those calls. Your doctor can prescribe something that won’t make you sick, and trust me when I tell you that you don’t want to be yacking with a couple holes in your throat.

3. You’re going to have to wake up in the middle of the night to take drugs.
It sucks. Do it anyway. Keeping on top of your painkillers is going to make your life much better. Deciding, “aw, I’m too sleepy to sit up and measure it out and choke it down” results in waking up a few hours later full of pain and regret. And that pain won’t just go away when you take your next dose (which will be extra hard to swallow). You’re going to need a few doses to catch back up. Set your alarm. Pre-measure your doses. Just do it.

4. Looking at your tonsils in the mirror is scary.
The doctor just did some crazy-ass things to the back of your mouth. It’ll look a little like someone took a couple bites out of you and then painted on a coat of white, alien mucus. Give ’em a good look anyway, because it’s useful to see how things start so you can track your progress. Keep a flashlight in the bathroom, it’s much easier than trying to use your phone.

Consider waiting to do lipstick and curlers until at least day 3.

5. You’re going to turn into a mouth breather.
You know your uvula, that funny little thing that dangles at the back of your mouth? After your surgery, it’s going to swell up to the size of a thumb and take up permanent residence on top of your tongue. No more dangling. Well, it turns out this enormous floppy thing is now big enough to get in the way of your nasal passages, and so you will inevitably find yourself waking up with your mouth open like a caveman, everything inside parched dry as toast. Two useful tips:

Get a humidifier and set it up right by your bed. At least that way you’re sucking in a little water along with all that dry air.

Procure a large number of pillows and arrange them so you can sleep like an old Victorian man afraid of snoring in the devil.

The more upright you can arrange a sleeping position, the less likely your uvula is to get in the way. I found five pillows did the job. Also: keep a drink on the nightstand so you can remoisten if you wake up parched in the middle of the night.

6. You should brush your teeth.
It’s going to take a little awkward maneuvering at first, but this is going to make your life much nicer. Avoid gargling, but give those teeth and your tongue a good scrubbing. There shouldn’t be anything in those zones you can damage, though do be gentle and cautious.

7. Your tongue is going to turn white.

This happens to just about everyone on a soft foods diet. It turns out that crunching up your food actually helps keep your tongue clean and free of bacteria. When you don’t chew on anything abrasive for awhile, a slimy white coating will probably appear. It isn’t dangerous or a symptom of anything particularly bad, but it is rather uncomfortable. Crunching on ice may help a little, and see above note about brushing your teeth.

8. Laughing will hurt.
I expected things like coughing and sneezing to be unpleasant, but it never even crossed my mind that it would hurt to laugh. Choose your Netflix queue accordingly.

9. It could be awhile before you want to talk.
The doc told me I could start talking right away, but even though you can do something doesn’t mean you’re going to want to. Talking will strain your throat, so you may be more comfortable if you avoid it for awhile. Keep a notebook handy to write notes to your caretakers. This is one of the very few times in your life it will be socially acceptable to send a text message to someone sitting in the same room as you. I think I started talking again after about ten days. I sounded like a four-year-old with a speech impediment for about a week, but at least that’s sort of charming?

10. Healing is gross.
Remember when I mentioned that looking at the back of your throat is scary? Well, when all that alien mucus starts to disintegrate, it’s also going to be very, very gross. I won’t describe it for you in any detail, because that won’t help it be any less gross. Just remember that in this case, gross is good. Gross equals healing.

The back of your throat, or a screen-grab from Alien?

11. Healing might make you bleed like a victim in a horror movie.
Keep a close eye on your throat during the gross phase. This is the time when you are at highest risk to develop a bleeding problem. I got lucky and my scabs disintegrated bit by bit over the course of a couple weeks. Sometimes, a scab can peel off all at once, before it’s ready, and that might cause bleeding. If it happens while you’re sleeping, you might wake up with a mouth full of blood.

I borrowed the idea for putting this gif here from this blog. She’s got good tonsillectomy tips too.

Do Not Panic.

If you discover that you’re bleeding, start by holding ice-cold water at the back of your throat (like you’re going to gargle, but without the actual gargling part). This will shrink the blood vessels and hopefully stop the bleeding. Do this five or six times (if you can’t just hold the water there, go ahead and gargle gently). Check your throat again. If the bleeding has not stopped, head on over to your local emergency room. You’re not on the brink of death, so don’t panic, but you do need to get the bleeding stopped, and the emergency room is the quickest way to make sure that happens.

12. You’re gonna be hungry.
There will be a stretch of days during the first and second weeks when eating is going to be really, really hard. Swallowing anything with more texture than water might become so unpleasant that you stop doing it altogether. If this happens, it’s double-extra-important to make sure you’re staying hydrated.

But just because you can’t eat doesn’t mean you won’t want to eat. Refrain from watching too much TV, because the pizza commercials will taunt you mercilessly. Do try finding ways to consume calories with no texture. Protein drinks, pudding, jello, smoothies made with protein powder, chocolate almond milk, and coconut cream (my personal favorite), straight broth, anything you can think of that will go down. It’ll probably take a little trial and error. I found that protein drinks stung, so even though I could physically swallow them, I did not want to. Keep trying things until you find something that works.

13. You’re going to lose weight. Fast.

This is too much weight. She should have called her doctor 80 pounds ago.

When the calories won’t go down, you’re going to lose some weight. If you can afford to lose the weight, there’s not much to be worried about. If you are concerned you’re losing too much weight, call your doctor. She may be able to recommend ways to get more calories or to prescribe something that will help (hellooooo, steroids!)

14. You’ll have good days and bad days, and they won’t go in order.
Hang in there. You’ll get better bit by bit, and the bad days will happen less often. Leave yourself plenty of time to rest. Don’t feel bad about taking lots of naps. Your body needs as much energy as you can give it to heal itself.

And now, a section of things that aren’t things no one told me, but that are really useful tips to repeat anyway:

1. Stock up on squishy things to eat. Especially popsicles. I could eat popsicles when everything else failed me. Also consider: jello, apple sauce, protein drinks, blended soups, broth, pudding (tapioca!), ingredients for very-smooth smoothies (protein powder, non-dairy milks, peanut butter, coconut milk/cream, etc), gravy, cream of wheat. You’ll get bored of these things, but a calorie is a calorie.

2. Be cautious with dairy during the first week. It can mix up with the bits of anesthesia left in your system and make you feel nauseated. Beyond that, it can cause you to be more mucus-y, which makes you want to clear your throat, which you shouldn’t do. If you’re dying for a bowl of ice cream, start small, make sure it sits all right. Dairy was one of the only things that did sit well with me during the second week. Mysterious.

3. Cold things will help with the swelling, but warm things are soooo soothing. As long as cold makes you feel good, keep it up. When you just need to be comforted, consider a nice warm (not hot) mug of tea or coco or whatever you like warm.

4. Make sure you have a couple pairs of crazy-comfy clothes easily on hand. You’re not going to want to dress like a real human being for at least a week, and you don’t have to! Comfort is #1 during this thing. I may or may not have spent a week wearing onesie pajamas with dancing snowmen on them.

5. Take as many naps as you can. While you’re napping, you aren’t thinking about how much your throat hurts, how much you hate drinking, and how hungry you are.

6. Keep a flashlight in the bathroom, the better to examine your progress every time you go to pee.

7. Once you’re ready to graduate to semi-real foods, think soft. Overcooked noodles (ramen was my favorite, angel-hair and egg noodles are also good options), mashed potatoes, eggs, oatmeal, crust-less bread. Add gravy or sauce for variety. Fruit might be good, though it can be acidic so try a tiny bite before you commit.

8. Be prepared to grovel in gratitude before the person (people) who take care of you. They are awesome. Make sure they know you know.

And thus we reach the end of my overly long series of tonsillectomy posts. Good luck, and feel better soon!

(Mysteriously, I could not find a gif for “dancing tonsils” to end with. My apologies.)

Diary of an Adult Tonsillectomy Survivor: Weeks 3 & 4

Recovered, Day 15

Back to work for real, now. Made all the phone calls I’ve been avoiding for the last two weeks. Walked to the pharmacy and the bank and the post office. Picked up my pots at the Opera House. Shopped for Christmas presents online. Failed to clean the cat box. Collapsed into bed at, like, 8:30 because what the hell was I thinking?

Recovered, Day 16

Went into Rapid City to do some actual Christmas shopping, and met my mom and sister for lunch. Indian food! I was feeling confident after that pizza event and extra festive noodles yesterday, but we did choose extra-squishy, non-spicy options.

REAL FOOD IS SO GOOD.

Designed a fancy gingerbread house with my dad.

Recovered, Day 18

Today I baked all the things, including parts for two fancy gingerbread houses. Ate about two pounds of gingerbread house scraps. I also made dinner for the first time in, like, a month. Cauliflower and chickpea tacos (a new favorite.) I kind of smashed mine into some sort of tiny-pieces taco salad, and although I started the meal with enthusiasm, finishing got to be a little dicey. Still. REAL FOOD FOREVER!

Recovered, Day 21

Today was the gingerbread house construction party. I arrived at my dad’s house with a giant pizza (I have a lot to make up for). An hour later, my mom gave me a piece of leftover birthday cake, and I discovered I could no longer eat real food.

All my hopes and dreams for the future evaporated. I left my folks before their delicious-smelling dinner finished cooking, because I knew I’d never be able to get it down. Got home and ate sad freezer soup.

“Recovered,” Day 22

And now, I pay for my real-food-eating hubris by returning to a liquid food diet for Week 4. (Insert glaring smilie face here.)

“Recovered,” Day 23

Why didn’t I think of ramen noodles before? They are SO SLIPPERY. New favorite food.

“Recovered,” Day 24

The plus side of being unable to obsess about food is that I’ve gotten a shit-ton of work done so far this week.

Tired of ramen. Invented a squishy breakfast food involving eggs, potatoes, and Pillsbury croissant dough. Almost like eating real food again.

Recovered? Day 25

Got real food for lunch. Chewed thoroughly, swallowed carefully. Upon reflection, I can tell that my throat is a little more tender afterward, but as long as I don’t do this for too many meals per day right away, I think it’ll be okay. Everything back there looks super good when I peer at it with the flashlight, I just think everything is still tender, and I’m probably getting used to swallowing around a throat that is a new shape.

So: one real meal per day for awhile. Hopefully by Christmas I can cram in all three, because… you guys… I love food.

Diary of and Adult Tonsillectomy Survivor, Week 2

Recovery, Day 8

Never falling asleep at all does not actually solve the problem of having an extra sore throat in the morning. It does solve the mouth-breathing problem, though.

I am so tired. No energy. I’m getting through a few more calories every day, but that still meant less than 1000 today, and maybe two collective hours of sleep in the last 24? This is not the right way to recover. I’m gonna drug myself to sleep tonight.

Other than having zero energy, today was a very good day. I sort of oozed from one reclining location to another, trying to will a little more food into my body. I’ve become a little obsessed with my calorie counter. As long as the number keeps going up, I guess we’re doing all right.

I went back to work today in a most part-time way. Answered a bunch of emails, managed some holiday inventory issues. Pondered trying to hawk gift cards. That was more satisfying than I expected it to be. I guess as long as I have an excuse not to actually talk to anyone, I probably enjoy the back-end bits of my job just fine.

My other accomplishment today was shedding some of the scars on the back of my throat. I typed “my throat scabs started to flake off” first, but “flake” is not right. There is no verb moist enough to accurately describe what’s going on. It’s very, very disgusting, and also very, very encouraging. This is the week I’m at highest risk for developing a bleeding problem, but everything back there looks really good and I’m feeling optimistic.

Drink more water!

Tea is actually my thing now. I’m drinking about a gallon of tea a day, more or less evenly distributed between Throat Coat, Jasmine Green, and Turmeric Ginger. Tea may not give me any real calories, but drinking something with flavor at least tricks my tum in to believing for a moment there might be a calorie nearby so it leaves me alone for a bit.

Pro tip: tapioca pudding made with coconut milk tastes amazing, fills a lot of space, and feels like swallowing clouds. I highly recommend it.

TODAY’S SEARCH TERMS:

• Who plays Hope in Ant-Man?
  (Ah ha! It’s Kate from Lost!)
• What does it mean if my throat stings after a tonsillectomy?
  (I am not eating acidic foods, internet! I am eating water.)
• Tumblr in the news.
  (Whoa, guys. Good luck…)
• Can I take benadryl after a tonsillectomy?
  (Yes, praise the baby Jesus.)

 

Recovery, Day 9

Oh what a beautiful mooooooorning! Oh what a beautiful daaaaaaaay!

Benadryl: the best drug. I slept for almost 12 hours. I woke up at 8:00 to take my steroids, but went right back to sleep and drifted happily among the pillows until I was good and done. I heard my phone chittering at me a few times, and I ignored the hell out of it, because there is no way anything coming through could be in any way urgent. That’s a beautiful feeling, and one I don’t know how to get in touch with very often.

It’s been a great day. I’ve eaten 1500 calories and I even left the house! I made a phone call! Talking to my brother, I reflected that if I had the kind of job I had to go back to, I feel like I could go back tomorrow without being too overwhelmed. As it is, I will see about turning tomorrow into something a bit more normal, schedule-wise. Y’know, get out of my pajamas before noon (maybe). Go to the store. Return some phone calls. I’m sure my energy isn’t really back to normal yet, so nothing too nuts.

Still no pizza, though. I got down three whole servings of soup, and some gravy-drenched noodles, but that was a lot of work and required some recovery time. The back of my throat is looking pinker all the time, but it still has a way to go.

I finally weighed myself today. I’ve lost a rather alarming amount of weight. I don’t actually know how much I weighed before my surgery, but I do know I’m down to my pre-college weight, which is not enough weight.

(How much of that weight was my actual tonsils??)

The solution is pizza, obviously. Any day now. 

TODAY’S SEARCH TERMS:

• Is it possible to lose a pound a day?
  (There are a shocking number of how-to guides.)
• What percentage of TV commercials are for pizza?
  (It’s gotta be, like, 67%.)
• How much do tonsils weight?
  (A fat guy’s tonsils could weight up to 25 grams.)

 

Recovery, Day 10

I left the house today! First adventure out into the wild. I had an appointment in Spearfish, so I thought I would take the occasion to pick up some groceries and test my sea legs. 

After a quick stop at my psychiatrist’s office (9 minutes in and out – I am rocking these meds!), I headed over to Walmart. It only took an hour and forty minutes to get the twelve things on my list. I spent at least 70 of those minutes trying to find the right granola in the cereal aisle. 

Who am I kidding? It takes me that long to shop even when I can’t blame a medical condition. I was kind of pooped by the time I got home, though. I had just enough energy left over to get the blueberries in the freezer and some food into my cats before collapsing on the couch, where I remained until Dustin got home an hour later. 

I tried to have some soup for dinner, at which point I discovered I can no longer eat anything even remotely tangy. I surrendered my brilliantly conceived “red pepper soup-poached egg” plan in favor of overcooked angel hair pasta drenched in Newman’s Own alfredo sauce. 

TODAY’S SEARCH TERMS: 

• Can I buy Quaker Oats Granola at Walmart?
  (Sometimes the internet lies.)

Recovery, Day 11

I am officially off the meds. So far so good, although today during my attempts to eat I was almost murdered by a banana that tried to burn a hole through the back of my throat. Back to alfredo and protein powder.

Not together. 

My friend Erin stopped by this afternoon with a get-well kitten. She’s fostering a three-month-old kitten, who spent the visit curled up behind my neck, making faces at Kepler, who was not impressed. Good get-well present.

And tomorrow it’s back to work. I tried to cram in as much slugging as I could manage today, but it turns out as soon as a body is capable of being up and getting things done, things start begging to get done. Maybe I can squeeze in just a couple more episodes of the Great British Baking Show tomorrow to make up for all the bread I baked and guests I checked in today. 

TODAY’S SEARCH TERMS: 

• How many ounces is two gallons?
  (256.)
• Whats the name of that Christmas sausage and cheese store?
  (Hickory Farms.)
  
  

Recovery, Day 12

Aah, weekends at the Inn. People actually want to stay here, and I have to get dressed like an adult and talk to people as if I am pleased to see them. I guess I’m not displeased. I’ve had a nice break. But I do sound like a four-year-old with a speech impediment. My Rs and Ls are missing in action. 

I spent my day preparing for the guests by hiding in my room with those episodes of The British Baking Show I meant to watch the other day, poking listlessly at a few projects on my computer. I get a pass. Technically, I gave myself two weeks off, so all this work I’m doing right now is really just a bonus. 

But then I promised I would make a pot of soup to donate to the Opera House to feed hungry Christmas Cowboys. Between soup, baking bread, and a failed effort to start a cake, I once again found myself melted into a useless puddle by the time Dustin got home.

Added mushrooms to my soggy alfredo today. That was an excellent choice. I’m added benadryl to my evening hot cocoa. Forever.

TODAY’S SEARCH TERMS:

• How do you make shortcrust?
  (With a lot of butter. Or whatever fat you like best.)
• Chocolate kahlua cake recipe
  (THIS IS THE BEST CAKE. I’m totally going to make one soon.)
• Chia coconut pudding recipe
  (Stick with tapioca. Trust me.)

Recovery, Day 13

Took some soup to the Opera House. Dropped it off in a mysteriously empty room. Is my pot of soup the only thing meant to feed 14 people??

Decided there was no more putting off the grocery shopping, so we headed to Rapid City and Sam’s Club. And also noodles. Udon noodle soup from Fuji at the mall. You wouldn’t think a mall sushi joint would have much going for it, but I’d say it’s one of the best spots in the hills. And oh! that soup was slippery and good. Also I tried bubble tea for the first time, and it was magical.

A stop at Sam’s Club turned into a stop at Walmart, Michaels, TJ Maxx, Target, and then Sam’s Club. By the time we hit the pet food aisle, I was taking regular breaks to sit on 40-pound bags of dog food, softener salt, chex mix, etc. I dozed on the way home, and could barely round up the enthusiasm to warm up my soup for dinner. 

TODAY’S SEARCH TERMS:

• Concert Schedule at the Deadwood Mountain Grand
  (Who the hell is Savannah?)
• Baywatch Cast
  (DAVID HASSLEHOFF. Duh.)
• What is Yakisoba?
  (Delicious noodles. But with extra chunks.)
• Does Sees Candy make an advent calendar?
  (No, but they really, really should.)

Recovery Day 14

I ATE PIZZA TODAY!!

Celebratory, “I survived week two” pizza. It took me an hour and a half to eat two small slices. I chewed very thoroughly.

Turns out pizza isn’t as satisfying as you’d like it to be when you take mouse-sized bites. 

TODAY’S SEARCH TERMS: 

• Amazing gingerbread houses
  (Oooooh.)
  (I could do that.)

Diary of an Adult Tonsillectomy Survivor, Week 1

T-1 Day Until Surgery

I am an idiot. I’m a very well prepared idiot, but an idiot no less. What kind of 37-year-old decides to get her tonsils out? What could be so bad that you could put up with it for 37 years, but then decide to have a major surgery to fix it? I’ve changed my mind! Call it off!

Except that I’ve already cooked, pureed, and frozen ten different kinds of soup. I’ve made popsicles and smoothie packs and stocked the fridge with juice. I’ve got jello and applesauce and a huge queue on Netflix. My employees are lined up to cover me, my husband has taken time off work, and if I don’t go through with this, all will be in vain!

Wrong, of course. If I really don’t want to go through with it, minorly inconveniencing a few people by telling them they can go back to their regular schedules, and having a backlog of frozen soup available to eat on days when I don’t want to cook anyway is NOT a reason to have surgery.

No no. Everyone says it’s worth it. Even the people who had weird and horrible complications said it was worth it. Get it over with now, and then you won’t be a fifty-year-old full of tonsil stones and regret.

Friends who have gone through this have been very supportive. They keep saying encouraging things like, “I had mine out when I was 18! I was back to normal food in less than two weeks. You’ll do great!” Don’t they know how much springier an 18-year-old body is than a 37-year-old one??

It’s gonna be great. I’ll be fine.

We went to get a Christmas tree today. If we didn’t do it today, Dustin would have to do it on his own. He totally would, of course, but getting the tree is a highlight of the holidays. As is our tradition, we lucked out and wound up with a snow-globe of a day to be out stalking a majestic blue spruce in the National Forest. By the end of the day, I even had lights on the tree (that is my end of the tree deal).

For dinner, I selected the restaurant that serves the most soon-to-be-prohibited food I could imagine: bison nachos drowning in cheese and jalapenos.

Dear, sweet, solid food. I loved thee well!

I stayed up late trying to tie up all my other loose ends: one more batch of smoothies to portion out, a loaf of bread to start for the business, employees to email final details to, and oh yeah, that writing project I meant to have completely finished but am still waiting on calls back about. (No one’s ever going to hire me to write again if they look too closely at the construction of that last sentence.) Whatever, I’ve left more voicemails. Ah yes, and let’s change my voicemail message to explain why I won’t be returning any calls for awhile. Not that that’s ever stopped anyone from leaving messages while I’m away before.

…

Midnight.

I was coping just fine until I remembered with a toe-tingling shock that I took a giant-ass dose of ibprofun on Friday. I wasn’t supposed to do that. It was in my directions, and I completely forgot. What if they tell me I can’t do the surgery? Obviously I have to tell them. What if I don’t tell them and then I bleed to death? I’ll call first thing in the morning. If they have to cancel, I won’t waste anyone’s time.

…

1am.

God that was dumb, what was I thinking?

(That you had a really, really, really bad neck-ache? The kind you interrupted your chiropractor’s holiday for? Would you have taken those ibprofun even if you’d remembered your instructions? Probably.)

(Who are you kidding, you’re a rule-follower. You’d’ve taken Tylenol and suffered.)

…

2am.

This is stupid. I have to stop obsessing about this. How to distract myself? Reading isn’t working. I know: I shall see whether I can recall the names of all the state capitals. Alabama: Montgomery. Alaska: Juneau. Arizona: Phoenix. Arkansas: Little Rock….

TODAY’S SEARCH TERMS:

• Where do I get a Christmas Tree Permit in Rapid City?
  (Not at Boyd’s, thanks a lot.)
• Eagle Bar Deadwood hours
  (Closed on Sundays in the winter, drat.)
• Blueberry avocado smoothie recipe
  (Not as good as it sounds.) (Yeah, I know.)
• What if I take ibprofun the week before surgery?
  (You might bleed to death. Or you might not. Ask your doctor.)

 

Day Zero. 8:30am. 

Surgery is not cancelled because of my brain fart. The nurse I talked to wasn’t quite as reassuring as I’d hoped she’d be, but I suppose that’s what you get when you don’t follow directions. At least I play nice with others.

Surgery is at 11. So far today I have washed my hair, baked a loaf of bread, popped out my last batch of popsicles, swallowed my regular pills with a microscopic sip of water that I’m convinced absorbed directly into my cheeks rather than going down my throat and…

There’s nothing else to do. An hour to get to the surgery center. I wonder if Dustin knows what the capital of West Virginia is?

…

10:30am.

I don’t have to tell you how sexy my outfit is. I’ve even got a hat. The anesthesiologist has just finished reassuring me they’ll do everything they can to prevent me from tossing my cookies after I wake up. Can you even imagine the horror of throwing up after a throat surgery?

Just waiting for the last debriefing by the doc, now. I need to ask him if there’s any way I can damage myself by trying too hard to drink water after this thing. I know drinking water is super important, and is going to be super painful, but I’m committed to kicking recovery’s ass, even if it hurts an awful lot.

…

Good news: I can’t poke holes in my throat by trying to drink too much water.

THIS MORNING’S SEARCH TERMS:

• What do you have to pay for if you reschedule a surgery the same day?
  (Too much.)
• What is the capital of West Virginia?
  (Charleston.)
• List of state capitals
  (Look it up yourself.)

 

Post-Op, Day 1

Everything went brilliantly. The doc said the procedure went “unusually well.” Not sure what that means, but it has to be a good thing, right? I didn’t yack when I woke up (or at all), so that’s amazing. The pain is SO much less than what I expected. I was munching ice and swilling water like a pro a bare few minutes after regaining consciousness. The nurse said I could talk, and told me real talking is better than whispering, but I have no idea how doing anything involving my vocal cords could possibly be okay right now, so mostly I found myself mouthing words at her, and when she didn’t know what I meant, trying to sign at her. I think eventually she just gave up figuring it out and started offering ice every time I mooed in her general direction.

Dustin brought me home, tucked me in, then headed over to put in a couple hours of work. I tucked in with my big glass of ice water, one very concerned cat, and… no, watching Netflix is too hard. I took lots of naps instead. Turns out I’m amazing at napping through this business.

Turkey broth and popsicles for dinner! I am winning at post-op recovery! At this rate, I’m gonna beat that 18-year-old friend’s record and be eating nachos again by the end of the week.

THIS AFTERNOON’S SEARCH TERMS:

• Is it better to take opiods with or without food?
  (Probably with.)
• How much water is too much water?
  (More than 27oz/hour.) (I’ll be fine.)
• Should I brush my teeth after a tonsillectomy?
  (Yes, please God, yes.)

 

Post-Op. Day 2

Hubris. There’s no other explanation.

My pain meds turned on me. This morning, I was brilliant, perfect, putting away applesauce and soup and gallons of water. Then it all went wrong. Now I can’t keep anything down. The doc had me ditch the narcotics in favor of a acetaminophen/ibprofun regimen. Can’t even keep those down. Going to bed because even no pain meds has to be better than more heaving.

TODAY’S SEARCH TERMS:

• How do I take regular pills after a tonsillectomy?
  (Yes! You can take pills after a tonsillectomy!) (Sigh.)
• What happens if I throw up after a tonsillectomy?
  (You might throw up after a tonsillectomy!) (Seriously?)
• Nearest 24-hour pharmacy
  (Rapid City. Gah.)
• Phone number Dr. White ENT
  (Easy to find.)
• Can I take children’s motrin on an empty stomach?
  (You really shouldn’t, but you’re an adult.)

 

Post-Op. Day 3

In retrospect, yacking was not as painful as I expected it to be. I mean, there’s nothing at all in me but liquid, so … nothing to cause friction?

Don’t get me wrong, yesterday was freaking horrible and even though my throat hurts like fuck today, I will take this over ralphing any day.

This is the pain I was expecting. I don’t like it, but a couple doses of baby drugs in, I’m back to level. I can still drink, and I managed to get down most of a bowl of cream of wheat. So many naps.

Naps are amazing, because it turns out you don’t think about swallowing while you’re asleep, so you don’t do it, and when you don’t swallow, nothing hurts. My Netflix lineup is completely neglected so far. So many nice shows, so little interest in staying awake. I’m not sleepy, I just don’t want to be awake, and it turns out that’s a reasonably effective soporific.

The other thing I discovered today is that I remember more of my ASL than expected. Of course, I’m in pain and half-conscious most of the time, so even if I know what I’m signing, that doesn’t mean Dustin does. He’s having trouble keeping the letters A and S straight, too, which has caused some excellent confusion as well. Talking is the worst, though, so we’re gonna have to sort it out.

TODAY’S SEARCH TERMS:

• What to expect recovering from a tonsillectomy
  (The articles about this are SO boring and incomplete. I’m gonna fix that.)
• What is the nutritional value of Jello?
  (“Value.”) (Better than nothing when you can’t eat anything else.)

 

Post-Op. Day 4

I am in Hell.

Okay, it’s not quite as bad as that one guy mom met who told her he contemplated suicide at some point during the first week after his recovery. It’s not that bad. Keep reminding yourself of that.

The pain meds aren’t keeping up. I couldn’t eat my cream of wheat and my water intake has gone down the tank. When it was time for my 6pm dose of Tylenol, my stomach revolted. Children’s liquid Tylenol is the absolute worst. It has to be 90% sugar, 4% medicine, and 6% something to make it ooze like that pink stuff from Ghostbusters 2.  On the plus side, after two days of successfully swallowing my regular pills with no difficulty, it occurred to me that if I got the really shiny, coated, name-brand versions of Tylenol and Advil, I’d be able to toss back pills instead. MUCH BETTER IDEA. These liquid drugs were either going to induce vomiting or diabetes. Probably both.

The real problem is that it took longer to find those shiny pills than I expected, so by the time Dustin got back from the store, I’d been pain-med free (not to mention food-free) for almost six hours. Swallowing those pills almost made me pass out (not the pills’ faults).

I’ve earned tonight’s sleep.

TODAY’S SEARCH TERMS:

• Why is my tongue white?
  (Side-effect of a soft-foods diet.)
• Do they make an Advil suppository?
  (They definitely make a Tylenol suppository!)

 

Post-Op. Day 5

Yesterday was not a high bar to beat, but at least I managed that. Kept on-track with my pain meds, but had a really hard time eating. Spent forty minutes working on my cream of wheat before giving up. Thought maybe something a little more interesting might help, so I scooted downstairs and made myself an egg with a side of crustless bread and peanut butter to dip it in. An hour and a half later, I’d managed 2/3 of the egg and even less of the bread, although the taste of those things on my tongue made my tum cry with longing. The gatekeeper in my throat simply would not make way.

The rumbling in my tum was so bad by bedtime that I tried to forced down some applesauce, for fear that the tum’s wrath could turn back into nausea. The end result is that I feel like my throat has been coated with sticky acid and clamped with a flaming vice. Screw having food in your tum first, I’m taking a double dose of ibprofun and sleeping this off.

TODAY’S SEARCH TERMS:

• Meme “Thanks it has pockets”
  (I got a sweet fuzzy onesie with pockets to recover in.)
• How exactly does ibprofun damage your stomach?
  (Dang. Gonna ease of that bidness a little.)
• How much Tylenol will kill me?
  (Tylenol is dangerous, kids. Do not take more than recommended.)

 

Post-Op. Day 6

Last night I dreamed I was eating pizza. My god, it was good! Halfway through my amazing, cheesy, delicious slice, I remembered pizza was an explicit no-no. I started crying because I’m too well behaved to even finish the sin I was already committing.

Nice way to wake up: hungry, guilty, and unfulfilled. I’ve been thinking lustful thoughts about that pizza all day.

Shaking off pizza sadness, the first thing I did today was send a note to my pharmacist friend, Andrea, asking if there was a better way to dose my pain meds. She takes such good care of me. We chatted about less workish things while I plotted my plan of attack. I was feeling pretty bad and very, very hungry.

Before I could decide on a strategy, Dr. White called to see how things were going. I explained my food dilemma, and he proposed it might be time to try some steroids to reduce the swelling.

Why didn’t we start with this??

(No, really? Why not? Are they dangerous? The internet is surprisingly mum on the side-effects of short-term use.)

Turns out steroids are disgusting to swallow. Andrea says to swish with chocolate afterward. Hey, any excuse…

Decorated the Christmas tree today. Only took six hours! Haha, just kidding. Dustin did most of the work, so it actually went quite fast. I spent a lot of time laying on the couch, mooing at him by way of making suggestions. Speaking is still far more pain than it’s worth.

Didn’t get much food in me today, but I’m feeling optimistic for tomorrow. Go, steroids, go!

TODAY’S SEARCH TERMS:

• Risks of steroids
  (Gosh, that’s a lot of articles about sports.)
• Risks of steroid medication after surgery
  (MANY. Be careful on long-term steroids!)
• Risks of steroid medication after surgery short term
  (MANY. Be careful on long-term steroids!)
• Why do steroids make you buff?
  (Yawn.)
• phone number White Drug
  (Thanks for keeping Saturday hours, Deadwood!)
• What do removed tonsils look like?
  (I really wanted to know. You probably don’t.)
• What happens to a blood vessel after it’s cauterized?
  (The internet has no idea what I’m asking.)

 

Post-Op. Day 7

One week! I made it!

Waking up is a bitch. All those hours of no new pain meds, plus the delightful inevitability of mouth-breathing so that everything is dry and extra sore. Getting down the 6am pills is my very least favorite moment of the day, but if I can do that and then immediately take a nap, everything is much better the second time I wake up.

Turns out, steroids cause insomnia! I spent some of my sleepless hours last night watching the movie Coco for the first time. OHMYGODYOUGUYS! It’s SO GOOD!

Sidenote: laughing with giant holes in your throat is not a very good idea. Maybe save this movie for another occasion.

Today feels like a victory lap. Pain meds were pulling their weight, and though I still can’t seem to get real food down, my friend Anne had the best idea ever: find the fattiest drink available! I wound up making a … smoothie? out of coconut cream, almond milk, and protein powder. It was weird, but it went right down the hatch, and my tum did a happy dance. So I made a second one with chocolate almond milk, peanut butter, and coconut cream. Also weird, but it was basically just the lushest chocolate milk you’ve ever had. It’s even better as hot chocolate.

With that accomplishment under my belt (I got 650 calories today!) I had a lot more energy and spent most of the day up and around the house. Don’t get me wrong – I didn’t accomplish anything useful. Geeze, come to think of it, what did I do all day? I suppose I played a rather large number of Paper.io games, in which my little cow swoops around a field and tries to claim a bigger patch than all the other cows. Trust me, this game is great. I read a little. Petted the cat.

Look, there are downsides to this horrible business, but all this sanctioned lazing about is pretty amazing, from this side of Day 7.

The steroids have finally reduced the swelling enough that I could get a proper look at the back of my throat. It’s scary back there. I’m also terribly confused about how big my tonsils were. Ping pong balls? It looks like there’s enough space back there now to store an entire apple.

I wonder what my voice is going to sound like when it finally comes back? That’s some serious extra echo-space back there.

TODAY’S SEARCH TERMS:

• Can prednisone cause insomnia?
  (Um, duh. In a very serious way.)
• Spanish version of “Remember Me”
  (“Recuerdame.”) (I needed to know so I can ask the mariachis to play it next month.)
• How many calories in a cup of tea?
  (TWO.)
• Video: how to gift wrap a cat
  (These are the best videos, you guys.)

My House is For Sale

Sometimes, when you spend all of your energy thinking about something for months, you forget that not everyone already knows about it. Many apologies for the Facebook post springing the sale of my house and business with no real preamble.

So. I am selling my bed and breakfast, and I am terrified.

Many of you, over the past eight years, have heard me talk about my home and my business in joking terms: “Haha, yes, I run a bed and breakfast. An introverted night owl, running a bed and breakfast, haha, who would have thought?”

Not me, that’s who.

Eight years ago, I bought a beautiful house with a lot of problems because I fell in love with it and all its potential. We moved our two rooms worth of furniture into this six-bedroom house and wondered exactly what we thought we’d do with all that extra space. So we listed a room on AirBnB because, why not? That would get us a little extra cash to help fix the old girl up. Selling one room to laid-back guests was easy, and pretty soon we thought we could manage a couple rooms. In those first couple years, we made enough money to help repair some walls and plumbing, and we met some really interesting people.

Turns out, you can’t run an unlicensed AirBnB in Deadwood, so when the city came knocking, we had to decide whether to become official or stop altogether.

One small thing led to another, and here – six years later – I’m running a business that supports me and three employees. Last year, I hosted 742 sets of guests from every single state and a couple dozen countries. Last year, I baked somewhere in the neighborhood of 250 loaves of sourdough bread and cooked up almost 3,000 eggs. Last year, I oversaw 650 toilet-scrubbings and bed-makings, and the deaths of three coffee makers.

Last year, I took six days off between May 1 to October 31.

It turns out, an introverted night owl cannot continue to run a bed and breakfast forever, without running out of fuel. I love this house – I have put literal blood, sweat, and tears into nearly every one of its rooms. I helped transform it from a broken shell into one of the most beautiful houses in Deadwood (if I do say so myself). It has treated me very well and taught me many lessons, but we have arrived at a point when to continue growing the business and helping it thrive means giving more than I have to give, and losing out on some of my own opportunities to thrive.

I am absolutely terrified to do this. When we bought this house, we thought we would be here forever. I do not care much for change, but I look at places and people who refuse to change and I see how damaging that refusal can be. I don’t want to be that person. I want to continue to grow and learn how to thrive again, but the pot I’m currently planted in has no more room for my roots to spread.

Being scared makes me wax weirdly (painfully?) poetic. Sorry.

I don’t have any idea how long it will take to sell. We could have a contract in a month, we could be here for another few years. Until then, I’m going to keep building and growing and making and loving as best I can, with appreciation for all the circumstances and people who have gotten me this far.

But if you know someone who wants to own a bed and breakfast, I wouldn’t mind if you’d point them my way. And if you want to come up and stay with us quick before we sell, give me a call! If the timing works out badly, I just bought a great new tent, and I’ll be happy to share that too. 🙂

Much love and thanks for all your support.
❤ Laura

 

The Thank-You Project

Dear the three people who read this blog:

Today I am starting a new project on a new blog that will run along side this one for the next 365 days. (Makes it sound like I actually still put up regular posts here, which I guess hasn’t been strictly true [or in any sense true] lately, but maybe getting back into the habit of blogging at all will make it more true this year?)

Starting today, I am going to write a thank-you note to someone who has touched my life every day for the next 365 days. If you’d like, you’re welcome to follow along at The Thank-You Project, which is also linked in the menu above.

Here’s to a year of gratitude and writing!

❤ Laura

The Introvert’s Innkeeper Script

In the course of a normal day at my historic bed and breakfast, I converse with somewhere between two and five couples who are visiting me from the far reaches of the globe. I’ve hosted people from every continent except Antarctica (I’m still hoping), with hugely varied backgrounds, vocations, and personalities. I’ve learned more than I ever needed to know about these people’s hobbies, grandchildren, pets, cars, diseases, and heartbreaks.

Yes, running a bed and breakfast is a wonderful way to meet and converse with people, to learn about different lives and cultures and see a bit of the world through other people’s eyes. It’s an ideal profession for an extrovert.

So where does that leave the Introvert Innkeeper?

I have a little secret for you, something they never tell you about a job like this: real conversation is as rare as icebergs at the equator. Rather than being a polished conversationalist, I am a talking robot, a computer program who responds to fixed cues with identical streams of words every single time. Instead of conversing, I am performing a part in an improvisational play where I’ve learned 100 lines, and the only question is, which order will I deliver them in today?

Fifty of those lines are delivered as a matter of course to nearly every guest. There’s the regular check-in and room-tour speeches, of course, but there are also certain questions that every guest asks, almost without fail:

“How long have you lived here?”
(“We’ve been in the house for seven years. This is our fifth summer as a bed and breakfast.”)

“This house is so beautiful!”
(“Thank you, we think so too. We feel very fortunate to be able to take care of it for awhile.”)

“When was the house built?”
(“We didn’t name it the 1899 Inn because that was our favorite number.”{charming smile} “1899 – just like the name!”)

“Do you know anything about the history of the house?”
(“No, it’s never occurred to me to ask any questions about a significant historic house in a significant historic town.”
“It was built by a gentleman named H.B. Wardman, who was a local hardware merchant… etc etc.” )

As you may have noticed, after answering the same questions several times every single day, the temptation to go snarkily off-script starts presenting itself, but I’m too well-behaved to do that while on stage.

The second set of 50 answers is for the chattier guests, the ones who have more in-depth questions about the history of the house, and for the ones who are, themselves, genuine extroverts who want to get to know me and do some bonding. I can gracefully handle almost all of these questions:

“That strange knob is where a gas fixture use to sit on the wall.”
“Yes, we live on the second floor at the top of the stairs.”
“It had been vacant for three years when we bought it.”
“I grew up down in Rapid City, so yes, I’m sort of local.”
“Deadwood has a rather complicated relationship with the casinos.”
“I had it dyed professionally, but I do the upkeep myself.”

But there’s a subset in that second set of 50 questions that I have come to fear and loathe, a set of questions that feels too intrusive, too impolite, but which 8 guests out of 10 feel compelled to ask anyway. The questions come in several forms, but they’re all seeking the same answer:

“So do you love doing this?”
“Do you ever get to take any time off?”
“How do you stand having people in your house all the time?”
“Has it always been your dream to run a bed and breakfast?”

And the fact is, they don’t think these questions are inappropriate because secretly (or not), everyone who visits me has daydreamed about running their own bed and breakfast some day, and they want confirmation that their fantasy is a good one, or sometimes, they genuinely want to know if they could handle the reality of it.

My responses to these questions are, like all the others, scripted and well-worn. Though I will give a different reply to the folks living in a fantasy world and the folks who seem to genuinely want to know, all of my replies to these questions are carefully-worded half-truths.

“You get to meet so many fascinating people from so many different places!”
“We slow down a bit in the winter, so we get to take some time off then.”
“You can learn to sleep through anything!”

The fact is, people don’t want to know my real answers to these questions, and I certainly don’t want to share them. I’m convinced that one of the ingredients for being successful in a job like this is to make sure people believe you love what you do and that talking about it is always a pleasure in itself.

But maybe some people really, truly want to know about the hard stuff. So here, for the first and only time, are some honest-to-gods answers to those questions:

Running a bed and breakfast as a primary source of income is hard. It’s not like putting your spare bedroom up on AirBnB. It’s not like hosting your out-of-town family for two weeks in the summer. It’s not like a sleep-over with your girlfriends.

You probably expect the work that will go into keeping your house immaculate all the time, the work that goes into making nice breakfasts, that goes into recommending local attractions. On the surface, you understand that you will be sharing your house with strangers every night, but until you do it, it’s really hard to understand what that means.

You don’t think about how you’re on the clock 24 hours a day, how you can’t leave the house without putting a sign on the door that says, “be right back, call if you need me right away!” You don’t think about all those special diets you have to cook around, the people who will be grumpy about things you thought went without saying, like the existence of your well-photographed cats, or the lack of closets in the historic bedrooms. You don’t think about how important it is to set limits for yourself (earliest breakfast is at 7:30am and latest in-person check-in is at 10pm because I have GOT to protect my sleeping hours) and about how unhappy some guests will be when you try to enforce those limits (“but we have to LEAVE at 7am!”). You don’t think about what it means to know there are strangers in your house with you every night of your life, how they might not come in until 3am, how they might wander into your kitchen and eat all your Oreos, how they might accidentally (or otherwise) bang doors at 5:30am, how they get confused and try to come into your bedroom instead of theirs, how they get first dibs on your big TV and on the bathroom where the laundry machines are. How they ask you the same questions every single day of your life, the single most infuriating of which is, “so do you have a real job too, or is this what you do?”

(I won’t counsel you on any other kind of conversation to have or not have next time you stay at a bed and breakfast, except for that: for the love of all that is sacred to you, never ask “do you have a real job too?” I will testify at the assault trial of the guy who punches you for asking, and tell the judge it was completely justified.)

This post isn’t here to solicit pity of any sort. In many, many ways I am incredibly fortunate to be doing what I do, and there are many parts of the work I enjoy. I will always answer the questions guests have about my house happily (if formulaicly), knowing that if I were visiting someone else’s beautiful historic house, I’d be helpless to resist asking the same questions myself.

If there are things I don’t love about this job, I also know that I am not stuck here, and when I’m ready I’ll be able to move on to the next thing, knowing a whole lot more about humanity than I did before.

Notes From a Background Feminist

Happy International Women’s Day.

Happy National Day Without Women.

I am a proud, feminist woman, but I will not be going on strike today. I own my own businesses, and the only person hurt if I don’t go to work today is me. That does not seem to be in the spirit of the undertaking. Further, as the chair of an otherwise all-male city commission, if I skip my meeting tonight to make a point, the only result is that a group of men will make important decisions with no input from any women. This also seems to miss the point.

So today, I will work on a list of tasks that is long and contains some rather unpleasant items. I do not want to face down a room full of people and lead the discussion that will ultimately result in some parties feeling angry and disappointed. I do not want to look through the list of applicants who want employment with me and decide which ones to call back and tell “better luck next time.”

But I will do these things anyway, because I have taken on these responsibilities, and seeing them through – even to their unpleasant conclusions – is one of the ways I can act out my feminism today.

The other thing I’m doing today is spending a lot of time thinking about the nature of feminism. What is it and how should it apply to me, to the women in my life, to the men in my life, and all other people around the world? We all know the stereotypes about feminists – everything from the rabid man-haters who blame men for all the world’s wrongs to the non-leg-shaving feminazis who just want to see the patriarchy burn. These wild stereotypes often utterly miss the point, but there are other stereotypes that I find more troubling, and more troubling yet because I myself am often guilty of indulging in them.

By nature, I am not an aggressive person. Given my druthers, I would happily stay at home, do the cooking and cleaning, mind the cats, wear pretty dresses, read fluffy novels, and never EVER get into a situation where I’d have to tell someone something they don’t want to hear. I am an introverted, conflict-averse homebody who enjoys indulging in past times associated with traditional femininity. For these reasons, I often catch myself feeling like a bad feminist.

I am writing this today to convince both myself and you that such a thought is unfair and straight-up wrong.

In my life, I am fortunate to be surrounded by an astonishing group of women. They are scientists, mothers, teachers, artists, activists, wives, businesswomen, professors, politicians, engineers, lovers, and dreamers. They believe in causes and they fight for those causes. They state their opinions boldly and look for ways to rally others to the call. They expose injustice and uphold truth and righteousness. If it isn’t already apparent, I’ll say it clearly: these women are superheros.

And me? I am one of the tiny faces in the background, cheering them on. I am not leading any charges; by nature I am inclined toward following. I’m not recruiting others to the cause; given recent life experiences, I feel a strong aversion toward suggesting that other people should believe as I do. Worse yet, I find myself reluctant to join their marches, call their senators, or copy their protests onto my Facebook wall. My reasons for this range from the sensible (a small business owner living in a red, red state must take very calculated social risks) to the cowardly (what if I offend great uncle Ted and he won’t talk to me at the next family reunion?).

If I feel cowardly and don’t like that about myself, perhaps I should do some things to address that aspect of my personality. But here, I think, is the more important thing I need to change about this pattern of thinking:

There is no wrong way to be a feminist. Despite what some men might believe, there is no Feminist Card that will get revoked if I stay home from the marches, keep my political opinions to myself, or cook my husband dinner. Feminism is not about adhering to a prescribed set of social behaviors and actions, it is about women everywhere being able to live their lives on their own terms, without anyone – not men, and not other women – telling them they can’t or shouldn’t. Feminism is the very reason I should feel great about each decision I make for myself in a given day. I am fortunate to be surrounded by people who support and celebrate my decisions, from my frivolous choice of reading material all the way up to decisions as serious as whether or not I will have children.

I am supported, and I am loved for exactly who I am and what I do. Extending that same support and love to the other women in my life is something I can do without reserve. Perhaps I could work a little on boldness, on finding ways to use my strong position and my privilege to help other women gain political ground. But until I figure that out, I can celebrate the ways in which I can and do support the feminist ideals. I own two businesses and employ three other women. I attend my Historic Preservation Commission meetings every week, where my voice is heard and my opinions are carefully weighed in halls that have traditionally echoed only with male input. I am a wife, a daughter, a sister, an aunt, and a friend, and I strive to be the best of each of those things that I can be. I am also a complex mix of archaeologist, writer, actor, singer, cook, teacher, runner, gardener, and dreamer. If I worry that no one of those identities takes a dominant enough place in my life, that’s fine – entertaining that worry is my right – but it doesn’t make me a lesser or greater person, nor a lesser or greater feminist.

I will support and embrace myself today. I will support and embrace all of you, my magnificent feminist friends. This is not too much to ask, and it is not too little.

My Bazaar Treasure

When last we saw our heroes, they were lost in the middle of the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, having sworn to Buy Nothing! and yet surrounded on every side by rabid carpet salesmen.

But before we can reveal the exciting conclusion to this mad adventure, we must first take a trip back in time to something that happened before our brave adventurers even left the United States.

Because I am easily amused, Dustin often sends me photos or articles that he thinks will make me smile, laugh, or say “hmm.” I get lots of great cat videos, comic strips, bouncing goats, and that one picture of the dog stuck in the hedge.

Seriously. This is funny Every. Single. Time.

But one day, he sent me this series of pictures, with the following captions also attached.

I, also, had not realized how badly I needed a tiny city on my figure until I saw these rings. Stunning.

So I admired the photo, passed it on to a few friends, and then let it slip out of my mind for awhile.

Back to Turkey. With a name like Sevan Bıçakçı, is anyone surprised to find out he’s based in Istanbul? And with a husband as clever and awesome as mine, is anyone surprised to find out that he found out where the gallery is and planned a visit?

The moment we walked through the very nondescript door located on a tiny street in the old heart of Istanbul, I realized I was out of my league. Two formally dressed gallery assistants waited to greet us. Less than a dozen glass-fronted niches each displayed carefully curated, mind-boggling treasures. Dustin hadn’t told me what we’d find through the door, but the moment I looked into the first display window, I recognized the style.

“It’s like those rings you showed me! With the tiny cities inside!”

“It is those rings I showed you,” he replied.

The gallery assistant wanted to know what we were interested in. “Just looking! Haha, we can’t afford this stuff. Oh, er, is it okay to just look?” The woman’s scarf was probably worth more than my plane tickets.

Of course it was, she assured us. But she didn’t leave us alone with the treasures. She escorted us from display window to display window, explaining how the artist spent four months crafting each ring, carving out the tiny buildings, birds, and flowers from the back side of the large topaz (or other stone), then painting each by hand, in relief, from the inside out.

I do not know how the woman lured us into the back room, where I found myself seated with a cup of tea and a plate full of cookies, but there we were, being shown tray after tray of exquisite works of art which were all too fancy, too big, and too, too expensive for a peasant like me.

We spent an hour or so admiring their treasures and then ever-so-politely bowing out upon learning the price of the ring I’d finally pronounced as the most beautiful (the annual wage at my first full-time job was on par). We laughed our way back down the street, feeling pleased with ourselves for having come so close to such magnificent works of art, and promising ourselves we would some day be rich enough to buy one.

Fast forward back to this.

What could possibly have broken my resolve to slide through the bazaar without getting tangled up in the terrifying process of trying to actually buy something?

As previous paragraphs might have led you to believe, it was a ring. Perched in the middle of a large display of unremarkable rings in the narrow window of a small shop was a big, blingy ring with a tiny building carved into it.

“Do you suppose it’s one of his?” we whispered to each other. “Sure looks like it. I wonder how much one of his rings would cost around here?” “Haha! If you have to offer half of what they ask, just to get close to the real value…”

We moved on in search of the antique book stalls (which we never found), but the image of the ring followed us around. Later that night, as we packed our bags in preparation to fly out the next day, Dustin said, “We should have asked. We should have just asked how much that ring cost. Even if the price was outrageous. I wish we had asked.”

We packed a bit longer, pondering this missed opportunity.

“Our plane doesn’t leave until 1:30,” I finally volunteered.

Now the silence extended as we did the math. The bazaar would open at 9:00. We would need half an hour to walk there, and half an hour to walk back. At least half an hour to find the stall again and ask about the price. An hour’s ride to the airport, to be there at least two hours early.

We could do it.

And so the next morning, we found ourselves back at the stall of Dogan, my friend up there sporting the beard. I started by trying to stroll by casually, just another disinterested tourist. Not a tourist who had come back early specifically to look at a ring. Blasé. Bored. Unimpressed.

Doo de doo. Don’t mind me. I’m not slobbering on your jewels. Doo de doo.

I was so successful that Dogan didn’t even come out of the stall to heckle us. We had to stick our heads inside and heckle him.

“This one is very beautiful,” he said, unlocking the back of the cabinet to pull out the ring. “Very unusual, very special.” (I see what you’re doing there, Dogan.)

With his permission to touch the ring (one asks permission to touch something that might cost as much as the down payment on a house), I put it on my finger and had to laugh. It was much bigger and heavier than even the big, heavy rings I had tried on at the gallery. Clearly made for a person with a bigger hand, bigger presence, and bigger pocket book than I.

But it was SO pretty.

Even if it was ridiculous, we had to ask. We had come all the way back just to ask.

“Soooo…” Casual. Nonchalant. Not really interested in buying, just curious. “How much does a ring like this cost?”

“Well…” Dogan starts. “You have to understand that this ring is very special, very unusual. And this is gold,” he said, showing me the inner lining of the ring. “And these are diamonds, real diamonds. See how many there are?”

Yeah yeah, I’m thinking. Get on with it. How many thousands of dollars do you want for this ring??

“This ring,” Dogan finally announces, “costs <censored>.”

My jaw dropped. I immediately closed it, and then hoped he’d interpreted my surprise as sticker shock. It was sticker shock, but the opposite-of-usual sort. The price he’d just named was not chump change, but it was a mere fraction of what I’d been expecting.

“It’s real gold!” Dogan reminded us, in the face of my surprise. “Real diamonds!” To him, these seemed to be bigger selling points than the astonishing building carved into the ring.

We thanked Dogan and told him we’d need to think about it. We hadn’t actually planned to think about it, so now we had a real conundrum. We put our heads together like a couple of cartoon bandits planning a heist.

“For that price, it can’t be real, can it?”

“Does it matter? It’s beautiful.”

“Can we afford <the price Dogan named>?”

“Wrong question. The question is, can we afford the final price?”

“What do you think we could talk him down to? The number already seems so low.”

“Well, what are we willing to spend on it?”

“If it’s real, we can afford his asking price! But what if it isn’t real?”

“If it isn’t real, it’s a pretty freaking amazing fake. I think it would still be worth it.”

“Particularly if those really are real diamonds.” We grin at the imitation of Dogan’s enthusiasm for the diamonds.

“It doesn’t have a maker’s mark. All the ones at the gallery had maker’s marks.”

“Maybe it was a really early piece?”

“Maybe it’s a fake.”

“But still an amazing piece of art.”

“It’s way too big to actually wear.”

“But it’s art!”

We went around like this for maybe ten minutes. The bargain of a lifetime, maybe, but think of how many dinners out I could have for that money!

And so I found myself having tea with Dogan as we rolled up our sleeves and got on with the business of haggling. Dustin said no to tea, but I read somewhere that it is the correct thing to do while negotiating over quality goods in Istanbul.

I sipped my tea (it was dreadfully strong), and we discussed the price of the ring. Such a high price! we said. Gold! he said. It’s the wrong size! we said. We can resize it! he said. I didn’t mean to spend this much money! I said. I’m just not sure! I said. It’s really nice, but…! I said.

He lowered the price for us three times before we settled. It was more than we’d hoped to spend, but at least he hadn’t managed to talk us into paying more than his original asking price, which is about what I expect of my haggling skills.

(Actually, at one point Dogan’s associate arrived, just in time to weigh in on the bargaining process. I fully expected him to say, “Dogan, you dolt! You forgot a zero when you told them the price! Deal canceled!”)

We waited for a very anxious half hour while they inserted a sizing ring that would make it possible for me to wear it. “Fifteen minutes!” they had said, when we told them of our impending flight. “Ten!”

(Pro Tip: Don’t try to bargain over how long something will take at the Grand Bazaar. You will not win.)

And thusly did the treasure become mine. Have I made you wait long enough for pictures?

I spent the rest of our trip with The Treasure (as it came to be referred to) tucked into a zippered inside pocket of the backpack I always wore, and found myself slipping my hand into the pocket often to make sure it was still there.

When we returned to the United States, I took the ring to several different jewelers to try and assess the authenticity, at least, of the claims that the ring was gold and diamonds. It turns out you can’t identify gold by sight, without chemical analysis, but all the jewelers I talked to agreed that the coppery color of the parts which were supposedly gold (the ring itself is silver – a point that seems obvious in retrospect, but which Dogan certainly failed to mention at the time) was very strange, and they would be surprised if it was gold. But they all agreed the diamonds are, in fact, diamonds. Rose cut, kind of a smoky color, and well set.

All of which is nice, but doesn’t actually tell me if the ring might be a real Sevan Bıçakçı ring. We tried to contact the gallery. Apparently they don’t use email addresses, but we did find a rarely-used Twitter feed that we sent a note to. Nothing yet.

So what do you think, internet? Have I found a legitimate treasure, or a really impressive (and still treasure-to-me) fake?

How a Non-Shopper Survives the Istanbul Grand Bazarre

I do not love to shop. My shopping philosophy bears much more in common with the men I know than with the women I know: identify what you want, go in and get it, exit as soon as possible. I don’t like to shop for the sake of shopping. I don’t like to shop around to compare prices. I just want to buy something I need or want with confidence that I’ve paid a fair price, then move on with my life.

But one does not come to Istanbul and skip the Grand Bazaar.

Our hotel host assured us that one also should not buy any of the following in the Grand Bazaar: carpets, scarves, clothing, jewelry, or anything. “Tourist prices!” If we couldn’t resist trying to buy something in the Bazaar, he instructed, we must not offer more than half of what the seller states as his opening price. “Maybe one third.”

Have I mentioned that I also don’t like bargaining? I feel like I’m accusing the seller of offering me an unfair price if I try to pay less (because that’s exactly what I’m doing, because that’s exactly what he’s doing). I want to believe that other people are fair!

That’s not how you play the game here.

Which explains why I was making this face right before we entered the Grand Bazaar:

Excitement and fear. Because, despite what is apparently an actual shopping phobia, the Grand Bazaar is a remarkable historical building AND activity. The Bazaar was constructed in 1460 and underwent several changes until it reached its final form in the early 1600s. (They were founding Jamestown right about then, if you’d like an American history comparison.)

When I hear the name “bazaar” I imagine narrow streets that are crowded with vendor booths. Nuh-uh. Nope.

Swiped this photo from someone else’s blog post about the Grand Bazaar (it’s a good post to read if you DO like shopping – click on the photo to check it out) because we didn’t manage to take any of our own wide-scope photos of this nutty place.

It’s a building. The whole bazaar is inside a building. It’s a freaking mall. Built in 1460. And, in Istanbullian architectural style, of course, it’s beautiful. Look at those painted, arched ceilings. Wikipedia helpfully informs me that it has “61 covered streets and over 3,000 shops ^[2][3] which attract between 250,000 and 400,000 visitors daily.^[4] In 2014, it was listed No.1 among world’s most-visited tourist attractions with 91,250,000 annual visitors.”

That’s a lot of people. But we’re here in April, and it hasn’t been a good tourist season for Turkey so far, thanks to political strife on the country’s eastern borders (which our hotel host was quick to point out is “the entire distance of Europe away!”).

The downside of a place called a “bazaar” not being very crowded is that there is a much higher heckler/tourist ratio, so that you really have to firm up your resolution to ignore the people hollering for your attention on every side.

(Incidentally, Turkish men LOVE my hair. If I thought I stood out in Paris, hoo-boy, let me tell you about Turkey. I got more compliments about my hair walking through the bazaar than I’ve gotten on all other things in my life combined. “Excuse me, please? I want to show you my carpets! Hey? No? But you have such pretty hair!”)

We had a map, upon entering the Bazaar, and every intention of using it to follow a pre-planned course through the streets so that we could see all the highlights. That plan went directly to hell about 30 seconds after going through the gate.

This map shows the inside of a building, guys.

We promptly got lost, and never ever got unlost. We wound up seeing most of what we wanted to see, but the booksellers section never did materialize.

I spent the first ten minutes inside having small, quiet panic attacks (I can’t begin to tell you how sweaty one’s palms get when the urge the flee is hemmed in by an endless labyrinth full of teacups, swords, scarves, spices, and five thousand Turkish men who just want you to take a quick look!). In the back of my mind, I thought it would be awfully nice to pick up a nice set of teacups, and maybe a scarf. Probably not a sword. But maybe some spices. I wanted to have all these things, but every time I considered looking closely at any item, my anxiety about the sales process scared me off.

To quell the growing sense of capitalistic dread, I had to decide to give up on pursuing an actual purchase, and decide to simple enjoy the bazaar as a spectacle. Having taken the pressure to buy away, the bazaar became an absolute marvel and an adventure.

A particular highlight was the antiques section in the very heart of the complex. We oogled astrolabes, the aforementioned swords, jewelry, armor, illuminated manuscripts, and every other manner of treasure you can imagine. Next up, find out how I wound up drinking tea with this guy in the middle of the bazaar.