Last Friday, I got my wisdom teeth extracted. It was an overhyped experience. The last thing I remember is the doctor sticking a needle in my arm, asking me if I felt anything yet. The pictures on the walls went blurry, and then…
“OK, you’re done.”
Nita took me home, where I became acquainted with Vicodin. I also became acquainted with what Vicodin does to one on a liquid diet, which is to make one violently ill for five to ten minutes every couple of hours. Honestly, I was only a little sore. I was on Advil by the end of the day.
Sorry, the Bahama Mama test will have to wait until we grill out. There was no way I was drinking that much rum while taking a narcotic. Yes, I’d make a lousy recreational drug user. Disappointed?
A brisk walk around the block was good for circulation, but not good for recovery. I was pretty much confined to the recliner all weekend reading, working on writing and on school work, and watching NASCAR and Family Guy. I’ll get around to being bummed about that later.
I suppose I’m not quite the wimp most people are at the dentist. It’s not that I don’t worry about it. After all, your mouth and tongue are numb when you first get out, even for simple fillings. A strange person is sticking sharp objects in your mouth and sometimes pulling out pieces of bone. This is not a relaxing experience. I am aware of this.
But since I am, I’ve learned to relax in the dentist’s chair. It helps to have a sense of humor. My oral surgeon needs one. When Nita and I kidded about my possible death in the chair, the doc got very upset.
Which doesn’t sit well with me. Maybe because my regular dentist has a better sense of humor. He has to. He spends his days sticking sharp objects in people’s mouths.
Now, if they could just do something about the sound of the damned drill…