“You’re fine,” I whispered to my reflection, but my voice came out thick and strangled. My lips were already chapped from breathing through my mouth for three days straight. Under my eyes, the skin was purple and tender from the constant pressure. Every time I lay down—which you have to do, eventually, even when it feels like drowning—the congestion doubled. Lying on my left side meant my right nostril would maybe give me 10% airflow. For about five minutes. Then it would slam shut too.
I called the nurse hotline at 2 a.m. on Saturday. “Is this normal?” I asked, nasally, barely understandable.
I remember standing in front of the bathroom mirror at 3 a.m., clutching the edge of the sink. My nose was completely useless. Not stuffy. Not blocked. Sealed. Like someone had poured quick-drying cement up both nostrils. I tried to inhale. Nothing. I tried again, mouth clamped shut, desperate for a single wisp of air. My chest hitched. Panic bloomed hot in my stomach.
I used it once. Just once. Then I went back to the humidifier, the neti pot, the saline spray, the six pillows, and the desperate hope that this baby had a very good reason for turning my nose into a decorative ornament.
