On the 7th Day, You’ll Breathe Again (Like Never Before)

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• February 14, 2026

No one goes into an elective surgery without some sort of promise. It wouldn’t be the first time I elected for surgery (a tonsillectomy which literally almost killed me, as I hemorrhaged blood enough blood post surgery to land me back into the hospital in need of a double blood transfusion), and if I lived long enough, I was also sure it wouldn’t be my last. No one looks forward to surgery (I assume, unless you’re a really sick fuck), but we look forward to the result.

Actually, I wanted this septoplasty ten years ago. It was part of my big plan to fix my sinus problems and live like a normal person, breathing out of both nostrils and not getting strep throat and sinus infections frequently. The removal of the tonsils did stop the repeat strep throat episodes, but trauma from almost dying left me too shook up to do any surgery inside my face again. Who could blame me? My boss when I worked in radio, a kind and funny man but timid leader, would say you never wanted to go under anesthesia— you then turned into a slab of meat on a table and consequences were out of your control. And while I somewhat agree with him, I also believe in hedging your bets on quality of life. Frequently, I encouraged surgery… whether it was my mom (in her 60s) who needed shoulder surgery to move her arm (she got it, through a painful recovery, had success) or my best friend who needed neck surgery and was in perpetual pain and losing feeling in her fingers (she got it, and through a painful recovery, had success). Science is amazing these days.

Even if you’ve never met me and only have seen a stand up clip, you will notice my voice is nasally. I always sound a little congested because I am always a little congested. For decades at this point. While certain people like my mom and others who have grown to love my quirky personality have grown to love my voice, if you haven’t gotten to know me personally, my voice is, in fact, annoying. Comedian Keith Robinson told me once. “Your voice is annoying!” he said at the Comedy Cellar table one night. “You and I can agree on that,” I said to him and we both laughed. Listening to my own comedy is unbearable to me based on the sound of my voice alone.

It could be said that it took me over ten years to work up the courage to have this surgery, but I think it had less to do with courage and more to do with being fed up with only being able to breathe out of one side of my face. Truth be told, when I spoke with my ENT about the surgery, I did inquire about getting the bump on my nose shaved (I have a typical Roman nose), but that is considered cosmetic (rhinoplasty) and that would not be covered under insurance and cost me $20,000. While I don’t love how my nose looks, I also don’t hate it that much. I also don’t have $20,000. Who has $20,000? (Lots of people have $20,000.)

[Above is a screen shot of my nasal cavity. That black squiggle line is supposed to be straight. This is medically considered severely deviated.]

It’s hard to say how my septum became severely deviated. Some people are born this way. But as an athlete and a reckless adrenaline junky, I’ve had at least five major nose collisions that I can remember. Truthfully, I always thought I’d break my nose doing something half retarded and would be forced into surgery. For better or worse, that day never came.

So I scheduled the septoplasty surgery to fix my severely deviated septum upon my return from a month long trip from Hawaii. I’d be stuck inside anyways. Everyone I knew who has gotten the surgery done (including my parents) said it was worth it. My research included watching YouTube videos and reading hundreds of comments, and though some people seemed to suffer more than others the consensus was practically unanimous— this procedure would change your life for the better. You don’t even know what it’s like to breathe like a human right now.

At 5:45am on Tuesday, I stood outside the surgery center, freezing my skinny ass off. They told me to be there by 6am, and naturally, I was too early. There was a psycho or a drunk or both at the bus stop yelling things that made no sense. I’d wished he would shut up. More than that, I wish they would let me in. All week, I had been anxious about the surgery. It was top of mind and I could hardly focus on anything else but getting this over with. My buddy, Greg, took the day off to pick me up and later be my house nurse (last year I was his post hernia surgery house nurse). Checking in, I had to sign your regular paperwork. As I waited, I read a book I brought (“Something Wicked This Way Comes”) but had trouble focusing. They called me in pretty quickly, and I had to put all my stuff in a locker anyway. As I changed into a hospital gown, I thought, “well, at least with my Hawaii tan I actually look kind of cute in a hospital gown,” allowing my vanity to distract me from waking up in pain.

They did all the usual questions, put an IV in your arm and the whole bit. Thank god for medical workers. They are truly the heroes of this world. I had the brains to learn about medicine but not the disposition to practice it. Blood made me want to faint. Needles made me want to throw up. Being responsible for someone getting put under made me want to cry. I couldn’t handle it. And yet, this was all routine for them. Just another day in the office. They all walked around as casual as stroll through a grocery aisle picking up milk.

It was a solid hour waiting in the surgery center and I wished I had my book or phone or something to look at besides my thoughts. My legs shook violently with nerves, to the point where multiple people asked me if I was okay. “I always do that,” I said, which wasn’t a lie.

Anesthesiologists are always characters. They come in with their own set of questions. This guy was tall, darkish skin and I couldn’t place his genetic nationality. A Queens mutt, I was sure. He asked all the regular questions but then started prying. Asking about my tattoos, what they meant. I’m a writer. What do you write. Mostly comedy. Comedy? He asked me if I ever did ecstasy and I said yes, years ago, but it’s not something I really “do.” You used to go to raves? Not really, I’m more of a rock and roll girl. Oh, I used to like raves. None of this seemed pertinent to my surgery, and I knew as well as he did that any use of ecstasy I did in my 20s was irrelevant  now. Was he hitting on me? I did actually look cute with my tanned skin.

My ENT is an Indian guy whom I suspect is not much older than myself. God, I hated that about him. I hated that about any successful professional my age. This had nothing to do with them and everything to do with my ego that I was a failure. This all being said, I had no reason not to trust my doctor and I did research on him as well. There is no surgery that is a small deal, but in the grand scheme of surgeries, this wasn’t the biggest deal either. I had no reason not to trust him. To him, I’m sure, walking on stage and telling jokes to hundreds of people seemed impossible. It is amazing what humans can accomplish through practice.

Though he had explained the surgery before, he did again. Especially the part where I’m going to have stents put into each nostril to keep the septum straight for healing. The stents come out in a week. Everything I read said that’s the worst part. The packing and/or stents. When they’re pulled out, it’s not exactly pleasant either, as they give you nothing for the pain and pull out these little plastic fans that are big enough for you to be shocked that they fit up in there.

Any trust issues you have are put out along with the rest of your body on the surgical table. Lights out. Funny how you never dream when put under. And I always dream. Always. When I wake up, I have the worst sore throat I can remember having since my pre-tonsilectomy strep throat days. I know it’s from being intubated, but this feels BAD. They try to get me to eat crackers but it’s far too painful. Even swallowing cold water hurts a lot. My throat hurts so bad, I don’t even know if my nose hurts. Speaking hurt, so I kept my words limited. The day before, I called the doctors office and had them send the antibiotic and pain meds to my pharmacy so I wouldn’t have to get them post op.

Back home, Greg heated up some of my bone broth, but that made my throat worse and I stuck with ice. It was a miserable day. I was in and out on consciousness and when I was awake, I wanted not to be. How fucking big was this tube they shoved in my mouth? And was it barbed like the spike of a sea urchin?

The next day, my throat wasn’t much better. The pain was so bad, it radiated to my ears. I could only sleep with the help of pain meds, and I could only sleep in half hour intervals, waking from a dry throat. Come Thursday morning, I was able to sneak a flash light into my mouth and could see the scratches and sores on the roof of my mouth and a giant white sore on my punching bag. After calling my doctor, he changed the antibiotic and got me more pain meds.

By Friday (surgery was Tuesday), I was improving. The worst part did indeed feel over. And it wasn’t that shocking to me, given my medical history, that the worst part was my throat. But now that the throat pain/infection was subsiding, I could feel the stents in my face. They aren’t super painful, but rather uncomfortable. They create pressure in your face and for me, my ears. You have to sleep with your head elevated, so I was stuck in this intermittent sleep pattern, keeping me perpetually tired. You’re not allowed to shower or take a steamy bath, so I gave myself a lukewarm sponge bath. I didn’t know if I was starting to smell because I couldn’t yet smell, but I wanted to be clean.

Actually, the first thing I did smell was the tape for the gauze on Friday night. I could smell it so clearly— chemicals. That’s what it smelled liked. Some blood drainage is expected and though hardly enough for alarm, even a little bit of blood makes me feel like I need to sit down. The doctors office called and said my doctor couldn’t see me on Tuesday and wanted to move the follow up appointment (where they’d remove the stents) to Wednesday or Thursday. How about Monday, I suggested, wanting my face unpacked as soon as possible.

That brings us to Saturday, Valentine’s Day. Don’t worry, I’m not spending it alone, I’m spending it with my nose stents, which are deep inside of me like an uncomfortable lover. There’s only today and tomorrow to get through and then I should be able to smell the flowers like all you normal nose breathing people. The worst part, for me, was for sure the sore throat. Everything else is tolerable.

This procedure does not change the outside of your face, but it could change your voice. I want it to change my voice so I can sing like Stevie Nicks and quit comedy and be a rock star instead. I don’t think that will happen, but a girl can dream. And the drugs they have me on make me have crazy dreams. Much of them about the ocean and being with all the sea creatures— I’m underwater with them, breathing.

If you are considering this surgery, please feel free to contact me with questions.