What’s up with the teefus

So I went in this morning, nervous and hungry, to have all four of my wisdom teeth yanked. The bottom two were impacted, the top two fully grown in. I go into the waiting room, sit and read for a while, joke and play with Ali, and chat with Mother-dear until my name is called. I let them hook me up to their variety of machines, then Dr. Mid-West (sometimes I feel like I haven’t even left Terre Haute, Indiana… and then I see black people) comes in and gives me a shot while saying, “This will make you drunk. Things will spin around a little, then settle down.” I’d already been keeping my eyes closed and breathing deeply to avoid sending my blood pressure to places no man has gone before.

Next thing I know, I’m in some sort of post-op room, with the Old Lady and Ali watching me. Apparently it was quick. I’m still mostly out of it, and only remember stumbling into a wheelchair. I have no recollection of the elevator ride or getting into the car.

On the way home, I remember being asked by my mother if I’d ever had any prescriptions filled at this particular Walgreen’s, and I remember being disturbed one other time (whether by Ali or for another question, I don’t know). Nothing else of the 30-minute trip home is memorable, except for my mother providing an arm for me to lean on as we walked from the car to the apartment.

Flash-forward: I’m in my parent’s bed in some kind of agony. My bottom lip all the way down to my chin is completely numb, my head hurts, my jaws hurt, I can’t close my mouth, and my damn sinuses are acting up. Mom wants me to take a pill (hydrocodone, I think the prescription is), and I have a hell of a time swollowing it, given my sore throat and unmanagable tongue. Then I’m crying, because I’m still bleeding, and I fucking hurt; then I’m pissed at myself for crying over this shit when Ali is probably running around tearing up the house and I know the last thing the Old Lady needs is a third child to manage (the Old Man being the second)…

Needless to say, the crying does not do good things for my sinuses, so I sit up to better be able to breathe. I swear it takes about an hour for the drug to kick in and the pain to minimize to a dull ache in the four places of removal, during which time I’m crying and trying to rock myself into some state of relaxation. The Old Lady calls the doctor about the pain and bleeding, and is told to make sure I have something on my stomach before I take any more of the narcotics. Oops. So we make oatmeal, complete with Vanilla Soymilk, margarine, honey, and Splenda. Odd mix, but damn good.

By the time the oatmeal was of a lukewarm temperature, I was feeling much better, and much more aware. The pain is still there in my throat, but for the most part it’s where it’s supposed to be–where the teeth were extracted. This I can live with.

If there had been external swelling, I was going to post a picture for comic value, but alas, it hasn’t happened.

So I’m up and moving, if slowly and with some dizziness. But I’m not confused anymore, and that, along with the abovementioned pain thing, is the important part.