So, over the summer I was told that I needed to have my wisdom teeth removed. With the enthusiasm of anyone confronted with having large teeth pulled out of their head I made an appointment to have the surgery done over thanksgiving.
When the end of November came, I drive home from University, and prepared for the extraction. My mother and I bought all manners of mushy food. Ice Cream, mashed potato’s, and Jello all stocked our fridge. I was prepared…like any solider going in for battle, I would not be afraid. This was the right of passage that any western world youngster must go through. It is so common to have a conversation about the pain of wisdom teeth removal at a table, that I was excited to finally have something to contribute to the conversation.
The Monday morning I was scheduled for the surgery, I got up, ready for the fight (and the anesthesia). After waking up at 7:00 AM, taking a shower, and getting dressed, my mother came into my room and told me to go to bed. I was pissed. Doctor’s should not get sick. Really, it should be illegal. Why can’t doctors be exempt from getting sick? Patients work hard to schedule surgery and then you get sick!!! It’s not fair!!
Needless to say, I was rather furious, as I was already awake and would no be able to go back to sleep, so instead I spent the day sulking. My mother talked to the secretary and she suggested that we make an appointment for my surgery for the next Saturday. This was not an option as I was supposed to be driving back to school on the Sunday.
So we convinced them to let us have an appointment for the next day, Tuesday at 11 AM.
That Monday evening, I decided to stay up late. With wisdom teeth surgery you are required to fast for 6 hours beforehand, so I wanted to wake up at 10 and no earlier to make the fasting a bit easier. I watched Avatar which, by the way, is not as good without 3-D. At 3 AM I went to bed with hopes of having gaping holes in my jaw in 8 hours.
At 7 AM I woke up to the most annoying tune in the world, my ring tone. I looked at the area code and groaned, it was definitely going to be the dentist. For a moment, I debated whether or not to pick up… If I didn’t pick up maybe I’d walk in later and they would have to perform the surgery anyway because I was there… Obviously this is not a fool proof plan, but after 4 hours of sleep and being rudely awaken by my ring tone, it seemed plausible.
Of course in the end I picked up my phone. “Hello, is this Rachel?”
Groan
“We are very sorry to tell you this but the doctor is still sick.”
Groan
“Would you like to reschedule your appointment?”
“Just a second.” I was worried about yelling at the poor receptionist over the phone, so I decided to ask for help. Scowling, I walked into my mother’s office and passed her the phone. From my look she realized what was wrong and talked to the receptionist.
At this point I plopped down on the stairs. Disheartened, I felt like I had been thwarted and did not like it. In my head, my wisdom tooth struggles were similar to that of Sigorney Weaver’s character in Avatar. I know, that she probably had a little bit of a bigger problem, but our frustration made me think of us as kindred spirits. She had battled bureaucracy, and I was battling the rhino virus. I imagine that Natalie Portman will play me when they make a move out of my struggles.
At least I’m not melodramatic.
So my mother had a conversation with the receptionist and explained that, no, I could not get my teeth out on Saturday as I was driving back to University the next day. So we scheduled the surgery for 5 days before Christmas.
If we fast forward ahead to present time, aka, 2 days before Christmas, I have experienced the surgery and only came up with two movie plots to explain the suffering I went through.
I got home late on the Saturday and worked all of Sunday so I was exhausted (see the blog about cleaning). That Monday morning I prepared to leave for the dentist. I had not gone through the same preparations, like getting mashed food or telling people that I would be incapacitated for several days. I think I didn’t prepare because I was so terrified that the appointment would be canceled again.
However, it all went as planned. My mother drove me to the dentist and all I remember before the surgery is being taken to the small little room, and looking up at the number 55 on a piece of machinery. They gave me oxygen and stuck me with anesthesia.
I woke up in a ‘recovery room.’ It looked quite like the nurses office at my middle school. I always though that anesthesia would leave you drowsy and unaware of pain, but no such luck. Although I don’t remember it, apparently my first coherent sentence was a verbal assault against the nurse who asked me how I was doing. After giving her a look that would make a grown man cry, I asked her where the vicodin I had been promised was. The doctor then came in and asked “how’s my drunk patient?” Apparently I wasn’t that groggy, because I responded, “not drunk, drugged. Where are my drugs?” My mother, who was sitting next to me must have been so proud.
At the same time as the doctor came in, I also began to bleed- out of my nose. This was not something I was expecting, and I don’t think he was expecting it either because he responded ‘oh dear,’ which did not inspire much hope. Taking me out of the recovery room and back to the surgery room he used a metal prong thing to stick a wad on cotton up my nose. It was as comfortable as it sounds. On top of that, the Novocain had started to wear off and I could feel pain in my jaw. After taking the wad of cotton out of my nostril, the doctor let me leave. I sat in the car with gauze in my mouth, the a distinct lack of Novocain, and my fingers clamped over the bridge of my nose.
By the time we got home I was sobbing. All I had wanted was Vicodin and the doctor had prescribed me Percocet, Vicodin's much more boring and less addictive cousin. My mother sat me down in the lazy boy at our house and promised to be back within an hour to give me the drugs that she was picking up for CVS.
During that hour I discovered several things. Firstly: I will not do well under torture. Every minute without the drugs felt like an hour and there was nothing that took my mind off of it. Secondly: I hate ice. My poor grandmother was instructed to put icepack on my face every half hour, and I did not enjoy it. In case you haven’t realized by now, when I don’t like something, I turn into a demon. I think there have been sightings of horns coming out of my head when I am feeling particularly defiant. So my lovely grandmother had to fight me every half hour to get an ice pack (that was for my own benefit) over my face. Thirdly: My dream of having to sit in a comfy chair all day is easier said then done. It really does get monotonous and I was disappointed with my reaction. I always thought that I’d fit in perfectly well with the people in the movie ‘Wall-e’ because of my koala-like personality.
After the hour was over, my mother brought be back the Percocet. Luckily the drug was effective and made me forget about the pain in my jaw. The only side effects: Drowsiness, nausea, and an inability to write for three days.
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