(This post will be very choppily written. Don’t blame me. Must be the drugs.)
Three months ago, they surfaced. Three weeks ago, I had my consult with the oral/maxillofacial surgeon. Three hours ago, I got them extracted. Before the surgery, I was really nervous. What if I have a bad reaction to the anesthesia? What if the pain is excruciating? What if they pull the wrong teeth? (Okay, that one might be slightly irrational.) But I had no choice. They had to come out sooner or later, and summer is a good time to get it done. You don’t have to go back to school with a puffy face merely to be called a chipmunk for days. You don’t have to pack your own lunch of weird, soft foods that, if it were really up to you, you would never eat. You don’t have to pop a pill during class, which the most immature kid in class is bound to see, because then he’ll yell, “DRUGGIE!” at you. In short, I figured I should get them done sooner instead of later.
The trouble began at midnight the previous night/that morning. (I never know how to phrase that. Technically, midnight is that day, but no one really views it that way...or do they?) I was not allowed to eat or drink anything after midnight, which unfortunately included my allergy medicine. Not taking my allergy medicine never ends up well...for anyone. I woke up at 10:30 the morning of and decided to watch a movie to pass the time until my 1:00 surgery. When 1 rolled around, I hopped into the car in the most unattractive outfit possible, because they said, “Wear loose comfortable clothing and do not wear excessive make-up.” Well, I didn’t do my hair, so it was a mixture of Helena Bonham-Carter’s Bellatrix Lestrange and the early-days Hermione Granger. Got a picture in your mind? It’s probably not as bad as your mental-picture, but it sure feels like it. The no-make-up policy doesn’t bother me, because I don’t wear much during the summer anyway, and I really just don’t give a damn. My attire consisted of a pair of deck stain-stained Adidas ™ running shorts, green Old Navy flip-flops, my black Titleist baseball cap, and a KU t-shirt. (I didn’t want to risk getting blood on my Notre Dame t-shirts, of course.)
Waiting, waiting, waiting....waits at the doctor’s office are always superfluously long...except for this time. I sat down, and by the time I got comfortable, which means crossing my legs, I was called up. They sat me down in a chair, plugged me up to some heart-monitors, put on a tourniquet, complimented my strategically-planned t-shirt, stuck me with the IV, and told me to think of something nice. Now let me just say, when someone tells me to think of something nice and I have mere seconds to do so, I feel a little pressured. Sometimes, weird things can pop up. Some may say what popped into my mind was creepy. Some may say, “GOOD CHOICE!” I’m going to reveal it here, so please don’t judge me.
Yes, I know. I may have a bit of a crush on Rickie Fowler. Oh, unrequited love, why must you hurt me so? And Rickie Fowler, why must you have such beautiful eyes; bold, luscious eyebrows; and tanned, golden skin? And the glasses you sometimes wear? They kill me. So attractive! (Just to clarify, it is not an excessive crush. I do not have pictures of him on my bedroom walls, nor do I doodle his name surrounded by hearts on every piece of paper I get a hold of. I’m not creepy.) Also, have you ever seen someone you find so attractive that it almost hurts to look at them because you know that they’re basically un-haveable? (That’s not a word. I just made it one, though.) That’s how I feel sometimes when I see Mr. Fowler. It hurts worse than my mouth right now!
However long it was later, I woke up. I tried reading a label on a cabinet door 10-feet away from me. 100 mL Sodium Chloride was all it said. It took me 5 times waking up and re-focusing my eyes to get it. I think I sang along with the radio. It must have sounded amazing with my mouth full of spit and gauze. I’m expecting my call to headline Madison Square Garden any day now. My feet were freezing cold...bad decision on the flip-flops. After a while, they let me out. I got in the car and my mom stopped to get me a frosty from Wendy’s. How the **** am I supposed to eat this with gauze in my mouth?
The drive home seemed endless and quick at the same time. Must have been the drugs. I remember seeing storm clouds to the West and asking my mom in a muffled voice, “Ith it thuppothed to thtorm?” She replied that there was only a slight chance, but with as hot and dry as it’s been lately, we needed it. It did rain. A bit. Not enough, though.
When we got home, I climbed the stairs and sat in bed. All of a sudden, I felt like my stomach was slowly making its way up my esophagus. Oh shit. Mother was taking too long with the bowl. My trashcan was reachable, so I did what anyone would do. That’s all I have to say about that.
I sat in bed with my frosty, ice water, ice packs, and watched 30 Rock for a while, then switched to the Office. The only bad thing about watching those shows was they made me smile and laugh, which hurts after having four teeth extracted. I wasn’t tired, the pain wasn’t bad, and I had more energy than sitting in bed used up, so I sat up, and started writing this...
....but my mom just came into my room and said I need to ice my cheeks, so I’m holding them awkwardly to my face in a fashion very similar to how people held phones to their ears before Bluetooth existed. I look like an idiot, I’m sure, but I must keep writing. That is not an option. Well that leads up to now, so I guess I’m done typing. Now I can hold the ice packs to my face in a normal-er looking way. How nice!