Today’s dental surgery went well. Except for one thing: I forgot to ask them to give me the ruddy tooth that caused all the trouble. I wanted to post a picture of it and gross y’all out.
Since that’s not an option, here is what a trip to a surgical room is like in my world: I freak out.These are the same kind people who relieved me of four wisdom teeth ten years ago, and I freaked out then also. I’m sure they were like, Oh, great, she’s back.
I do not like it, Sam-I-Am! I do not like the gown and showercap, I do not like the fact that I forgot to put on my newest and best undies, I definitely do not like the IV needle. In fact, I go completely nuts about it and give the nurse trouble, because I’m all tensed up and my hand has taken on the shape of a crone’s claw.
Then I go have a cry while waiting for the anesthesiologist, such that when he walks in, he gives me a long look and goes, “What’s wrong?”
So I hold up my IV’d hand, which hurts like a [email protected]#$%yotch because I tensed up as the needle went in, and because the tape is pulling my skin and making me think it hurts, and by the way it also hurts because it freaks me out. “I don’t like needles.”
“Well it’s in now,” he says, sounding bemused.
Exactly!!! I can feel that sucker in there! The very thought of a sharp metal probe beneath my skin is enough to nearly put me off the rocket launcher and over the moon with not-joy.
Do you see why I write SF!? This is like the invasion of the alien probe monster! Yes it is!!
So finally we’re done with all the checks and the confirmations of the health record and they get me lying down. And [email protected]##it, they’re fiddling with the IV to hook up the saline. And the needle is seriously bothering me. Worse, they’re pinning me into the blanket to keep my arms from flopping off the edge of the table.
And then the anesthesiologist puts a mask over my face and says, “Just some oxygen.” And I’m thinking, “Oh no, you did NOT say that, it had better not be ‘just some oxygen,’” and I take two deep breaths and then I’m waking up in recovery.
The sleep was gooooooood. I feel rested. And slightly ornery. Like I want to just get up and walk around, immediately, and test my reflexes to make sure they’re all there still. I’m on the side of the room, next to a chart that lists response scores. Moving one’s feet and holding one’s head up are the high scores. My feet move fine.
My head does not stay up without intense vertigo. Damn. I guess I can’t rack a high score yet, but give me a few minutes.
Unlike some other patients that I saw when we arrived, I do not even walk into a wall on the way out. I feel very lucid. However, I find out I am not when My Love tries to get me to set the GPS for the nearest drugstore. (They keep moving in Cowtown. Why do they keep moving?) I cannot find and sort the letters of the alphabet on the screen. It was a very odd experience. Needless to say, it’s good I cleared my editing schedule beforehand.
So we go to Wal-Mart, where My Love buys me a 7-Up and a gardening magazine with lots of pretty, pretty pictures and I sit very still where he made me sit. (He knows how to distract me from wandering off.) And then he buys me drugs. And I think, yay! Because the freezing is starting to wear off. And also, he gets me a milkshake, and I get to slurp it with a spoon and be gross because of having a fat numb lip all along one side, which entertains me far more than it does My Love, who is trying to enjoy his milkshake also.
In short: I am going to be just like my grandmother when I get into my 80’s, and it’s going to be a terror and a headache to everyone. Because when the senility hits, it’ll be like this all the time. But that’s okay, because the kids tell me they’re already making arrangements to put me in a nursing home — whether I’m old enough to go or not.