But for most of his life, Brett’s quirks were more endearing than concerning. In fact, other than his family and some close friends, no one would have suspected he battled anxiety and depression, which surfaced most often in winter. He drank frequently, and breakups could send him into an emotional tailspin. But no one was overly concerned about Brett before his surgery. He played guitar and bass, gigging often with several bands. He was a cheerleader for his friends, especially his bandmates and others in the Columbus indie-rock community. At work, regulars would come to Natalie’s just to see him.

It wasn’t until summer that Brett’s friends and family started taking his complaints seriously. He worked fewer hours, spent more time at his parents’ house, and stopped showing up to band rehearsals. While researching his symptoms online, Brett came across something called empty nose syndrome, a rare, controversial condition that can occur after surgical procedures on cylindrical structures inside the nose called turbinates. At first, he was relieved — empty nose sounded horrific. Good thing he’d had surgery on only his septum, not his turbinates. And yet the symptoms these patients talked about sounded so much like his own. The nasal dryness. The paradoxical open-yet-suffocating feeling. Panic. Insomnia. Fatigue. Anxiety. Depression.

In August, Brett dug out his surgical report. There, alongside the septoplasty, were the two words he feared most: “turbinate reduction.” He fell to his knees, hugged his dog, and cried. He hadn’t paid attention to the other, supposedly routine procedures his doctor had glossed over. They were presented to him as fine print, as nothing to worry about.

Brett was convinced his surgery had given him empty nose syndrome, but his doctor disregarded his concerns. Another ENT physician told him he was just having anxiety. It was a conservative surgery, nothing to worry about. “Breathe through your mouth,” the doctor told him.

That fall and winter, all Brett could think or talk about was his nose. He was constantly fussing with it — rubbing it, wiping it. Co-workers who used to crave his attention began pawning him off on whomever had the time and patience to handle his obsessive rants about turbinates. By mid-October, he had checked himself into the ER and told the nurse, “I need to sleep or I’m going to die.” None of the nurses or doctors had heard of empty nose syndrome. They diagnosed him with depression, but Brett told them it was an ENT emergency. According to Brett, the ER doctor replied, “The head of ENT here doesn’t think so and will not see you.”

A few days after Brett was discharged from the ER, he began calling around to ask for painkillers and tranquilizers. Concerned friends started calling Brett’s bandmate Sean Gardner and Gardner’s wife, Mollie, who had known Brett for years and dated him in her early twenties. Mollie called Brett’s girlfriend, who told her she knew he needed help, and that she’d tried over and over again to help, but Brett wouldn’t listen to her. The Gardners decided to go see him.

“Right when we got there, we were like, ‘Oh, shit,’” Mollie says. “The dog immediately jumped into my arms. Brett’s like, ‘Sorry, he’s just looking for some normalcy. I’ve been a little crazy.’”

“He kept asking for beer,” Sean says. “We were listening to records, and he was turning them up super loud while we’re trying to talk to him. He’s pacing and kept saying the same five-minute conversation about turbinates. Over and over."

“He wasn’t showering, not eating, not sleeping,” Mollie says. “All he could do was this loop.”

Eventually, the Gardners convinced Brett to check himself into Harding Hospital, Ohio State’s psychiatric treatment center, where Mollie works as a nurse. “He kept joking that he was kind of excited because now he would have his One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest story,” Sean says.