It’s possibly because they had their offending wisdom teeth extracted and are loony from the subsequent pain pills. Or it could just be me. I’ve been in a fog since Friday morning at 10am.
The oral surgeon was delightful and had me fill my prescriptions ahead of time so that I wouldn’t be waiting at home (or in the car) in a pain-induced rage for the pharmacy to accomplish that for which we pay them so handsomely.
There was rage, however. Though not induced by pain, it was every bit as serious, and may have nearly cost me things and people which are valuable to me. I remember little from the morning, however, and must have been forgiven by the offended parties.
It was the perfect storm. I have wildly obnoxious sinuses that tend to overreact at the littlest things, rendering me unable to breathe about 75% of the spring/summer/fall. This week was no different. Since no food or water was to be consumed in preparation for being put under, I did not have the luxury of taking my daily allergy medication and decongestant. My mouth was a Sahara desert of a party as I had been using the crap-nasty mouthwash prescribed for the 3 days prior to surgery. Sucks the ever-loving moisture out of your face and leaves you with the distinctly medical flavor of awful. So I sat in the waiting room for about 3 millenia, snorting saline spray up my nostrils. The receptionist thought it wise for oxygen to be able to travel through my airways during the procedure to inhibit, o, say, dying.
After waiting for the cows to come home, my name was called, and shaky with hunger and an innate sense of my own mortality, I made my way down the hall and followed the nurse into the room in which the procedure was to be undertaken. Creepy use of words, but I was fully sure I would not make it through alive and was looking for Saint Peter at any moment. The Surgeon had informed me during the consult that the consent form I was signing was merely precautionary. “It’s like driving a car,” he assured me. “If you follow the rules, you’ll be fine.” Sure, except that some other idiot driver could hit me out of nowhere and I’d be a goner. Or I could have a freak reaction to anesthesia. Theses things happen on TV all the time. Also, when you send out confirmation and reminder emails, make sure that typos in the correspondence do not include the word ‘dying’. So I quickly informed my husband to whom he was to dispense which of my belongings in the event of my demise. My brother, Dylan, was to be given full access to my Facebook and Twitter accounts, with which he was to inform the social networks of my “Kickin’ it with Jesus” status. In any way he saw fit.
Well, that didn’t happen. I did, however, have the best nap of my life. Deep, dreamless, and over too quickly, I was semi-woken by the nurse what seemed minutes after being administered the laughing gas. I must mention that the laughing gas had me convinced I was spinning on a post of some kind, with bright green atmosphere surrounding me. And I was very cold.
I remember little from Friday. A stop was made at Whole Foods for coconut milk ice cream. Besides that, I know nothing. I must have made my way to the couch, been ensconced in a down comforter, and been doled out various medications. Some time between 8 and 9pm, my sister, Hannah, came to visit and keep me company, which I remember in part, since the steroids counteracted the oxycodone’s sleep-inducing effects. I did not sleep extensively that first day, and was wide-awake the following morning.
Miss Emberleigh had a ballet recital of sorts that morning. Somehow I got her dressed and out the door with her daddy and 2 siblings, and with my sister’s help, met her at the studio for the observation portion of the class period. Speaking of which, I had gotten mine, and was blissfully cramp-free due to the enormous amounts of medication coursing through my body. I told you it was a perfect storm, did I not?
I managed to direct my sister as she drove me from place to place, and get back into my house without a house key. At least that’s how I remember it.
The second day is worse than the first. The swelling increases and leaves you with a nice, manly square jaw. Sleepiness prevails and you ignore your sister, your kids, whoever happens to be in proximity to you. Words do not form sentences. And you are desperately hungry. Little can be done about this last issue, however, since the steroids, while making you exponentially hungrier, crankier, and yet more cranky because you are hungry, are also attempting to reduce the manliness of your artificially square jaw. And the only food you can consume is soft, easily-poured smoothie-type concoctions which you can only handle so much of since taking in nourishment serves only to add to your facial discomfort.
48 hours after the surgery, I happened upon an anti-nausea prescription which must have been handed to me on the way out of the place where they did the thing to my face. I may still get it filled.
The hunger is only increasing. As are my attempts at feeding myself. Which in turn, causes more agony to my already painful visage. So I am eating, and rinsing, and medicating. And sitting on the sofa between being loopy, nauseous, and dizzy. Because I can, and I must. Since poor Jim headed back to work today. I am sure that after waiting on me hand and foot for the weekend, the incoming calls are a smidge more welcome than my bloody, drooling requests for my ice pack to be re-chilled, and for pity’s sake could he please bring me more food!
I am impressed. I’ve emerged from most of the fog and it appears my house is relatively together. My children seem to be happy, healthy, and well-fed. 3 of my siblings have apparently attended Prom. And life goes on. Good job, Jim! You must have been a champ. I should check out more often.
Thanks, as well, to Kristy, who, if I remember correctly, brought a pot of soup to the house for the non-slurping members of the family. At least I think that’s who the pan belongs to that’s sitting on the counter in my kitchen.
I have one more day before I am forcibly re-entered into active society. Dear Wednesday, please be easy. And please don’t rain. Because we all know it always rains on Wednesday.