Bye bye teef
Gweetings fwend,
I write to you from the couch, cozied up in my plaid pink bathrobe while Opa makes me cheese grits and scrambled eggs for breakfast. Earlier this week, I had an oral surgery consultation. Three of my wisdom teeth had already grown in, but the last one was growing into my cheek. Occasionally, it would flare up, causing me to understand why teething babies are so temperamental. As I soon found out from the surgeon, the tooth was actually infected, and so we scheduled an appointment to get them all out on Friday.
This was not my first rodeo. I've had teeth pulled before (and some), so I figured the weekend would be enough time to recover before class on Monday. However, when I told my friends that I was getting my wisdom teeth out, I got horror story after horror story about being bedridden for a week (and lots of chipmunk cheek photos), so as Friday grew closer, so did my apprehension.
There were a few things I was nervous about. Mainly, the general anesthesia and what crazy things I might say after coming out of my drugged-up coma. Not that I have any big secrets to hide, but anyone with OCD can tell you the idea of not being in your right mind and potentially blurting out an intrusive thought is anxiety-inducing.
But then I remembered that even in my drunkest state, I've always had an iron grip on my brain/mouth/actions, which honestly was something that surprised me when I started drinking. I guess I'd always seen depictions of people doing regrettable and out-of-character things while under the influence and figured it would have a similar effect on me. But no, turns out I'm pretty self-contained even after a few shots (which is actually kind of annoying. I was hoping alcohol would give me liquid courage, but instead it just makes my knees ache).
Friday morning arrived, and Dad drove me to the appointment. I was taken to the back, given a warm blanket, and some laughing gas. The last thing I remember is very adamantly telling the surgeon that I'm not a natural redhead and not to give me too much anesthesia, which he laughed at, and proceeded to give me a very detailed rundown on how they titrate anesthesia while putting the needle in my arm. I could hear my heart monitor pick up as he stuck it in, going on to made a joke about how, since I'm over 21, he'd call the anesthetic a cocktail, and I laughed a little too hard in response, even though it wasn't very funny (I guess that's why they call it laughing gas) and then I was pretty much imediatly knocked out.
I woke up, gauze sticking out of my mouth, like I'd been caught eating lilies out in the garden, not enough room in my mouth to say anything crazy, and was ushered to the car. Still loopy, I immediately picked up my phone and started texting people incoherent messages. Mostly pictures of my disembodied teeth.
Going back to my drinking habits, I've always been a horrible lightweight. One drink in (especially if it's one of Becca's martinis) and I'm slumped over on the table. My slow metabolism has always saved me money on a night out, but never did I consider it would save me $850 in anesthesia fees. They only had to give me one 15-minute dose (see, not a natural redhead), and BAM, I was a goner. The procedure went easy and quick, and I only had to get stitches in one of the sockets (the infected one).
You'll be happy to hear that after spending the morning on the couch and then sleeping off the rest of the anesthesia, I was completely fine. There was imperceptible swelling, no bruising, and only a dull ache, which was quickly fixed with a dose of painkiller. Opa made me chocolate pudding (which was very good), and Mom left some carrot ginger soup for me to slurp on. Despite feeling fine, I rested for the day, watching the new Agatha Christie show, Seven Dials (which was okay), and that brings me to this morning.
I slept with my head elevated (which was annoying 'cause I like my pillows to be as flat as humanly possible since I'm a back sleeper) and woke up with a little flush to my cheeks and a dull ache in my infected socket. Still, the swelling is low, and the pain is only a 1 on a 1-10 scale. I guess I have miraculous healing skills.
And that's all there really is to say about my teeth. Leo hung out with me on the couch. He's doing much better and back to his cute but menacing self.
I bought some new CD's from the local record store, and got two new second-hand books.
Hence, I will be lying in bed all weekend, reading and eating chocolate pudding.
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