It came the time that every adult dreaded, feared, and despised; I had to have my wisdom teeth removed. For weeks, even months before having the procedure done, I worried myself sick about it. But the day came, and I had to put on my big girl undies and get everything in order. By that, I mean preparing my husband to handle everything after surgery. 10-1 I wasn’t going to be a good candidate for it.
I remember lying in the chair while they wrapped cords and IV’s around me. They strapped oxygen to my nose and assured me everything would be okay. I got the distinct feeling they were preparing for the worst with all the nonsense strapped to me. I just smiled and pretended it didn’t bother me. Ah, but my face wouldn’t let me lie!
“Are you okay,” one of the nurses asked.
I nodded. I figured telling her I was about to throw up wouldn’t help speed the process along. Then the dentist walked in, he looked at my vitals on the screen and then leaned over me.
“Hey, Laura,” he said, “We’re going to take good care of you. I’m going to start administering the anesthesia—”
The next thing I know, I’m sitting in a random wheelchair, in the middle of a room I’d never seen before. I couldn’t feel my face or anything for that matter. Of course, I was really dazed and sleepy, but that didn’t stop my face from reacting. Occasionally a nurse or the doctor would bend down and look at me, face to face.
You know, even under anesthesia I had boundary issues. It was remarkable.
They wouldn’t say anything, they’d just look at me and then move on. But each time, that prompted me to give them my best ‘why are you here’ look. Normally, it would have been toned down a bit, but not with whatever they gave me. They got the full, unadulterated expression. I’m assuming that’s why they didn’t stay close long.
Each time I made a face at them, I could hear someone snicker behind me. It wasn’t until minutes later that I could feel someone’s hand rubbing my shoulder.
I turned to give whatever pervert that had their hands on me an awful look, only to find my husband.
Hello.
I don’t know how he got there, or how long he had been there, maybe the whole time? He was, however, enjoying the show my facial expressions were putting on.
Then came the time to leave. Which meant I had to walk to the door assisted. I wasn’t sure who was in charge, but someone needed to tell them this was a bad idea.
“Okay,” the nurse said, “Do you think you can stand up?”
She’s clearly never read any of my blogs.
I remember slipping my foot out of the footrest, I leaned forward to push myself up but out of nowhere, the carpet hurdled itself towards me. Rude.
“Okay, maybe not just yet,” the nurse called out as she caught me.
I tried to tell you.
My husband’s still giggling.
Finally, they got me to the car. My husband was starting the car when he looked at the prescription they had given me. I told him earlier that if he had any questions afterwards, to contact our pharmacist, Teresa. He had a question of course and asked me. I stared at him for a moment, wondering how he thought I could answer him. I looked like some odd version of a zombie chipmunk. Bloody gauze was stuffed in every corner of my cheeks. Not to mention, I was only working on 2% brain power at that point and all that juice was being used up to keep myself from drooling.
Bless my husband's heart, he goes through a lot because of me.
I did have enough brain power left to ask for his phone, where I then typed out specific instructions on where to call Teresa, what to ask her, and what to do from that point.
When I handed him back the phone, he stared at it for a while before he looked back up at me.
“Uh— you want me to call Teresa?”
I could not have been any more specific in my instructions. I nodded, all I wanted to do was lay down. He nodded back, looking a little concerned and a lot confused.
It wasn’t until later that night that I could form a decent thought. My husband came by and checked on me periodically. Right before bed, he asked me what I remembered from that day. Which wasn’t much. I then asked him how I got in the recovery room and how long I had been there. He informed me that I had gotten out of the surgical chair on my own, got in the wheelchair where they rolled me into the recovery room, and then called him back to sit with me.
Ladies and gentlemen, that was a lie. I wasn’t conscious until at least 15 minutes AFTER my husband entered the recovery room. I know. I was there. But everyone else was convinced I had done this on my own. Maybe they took some anesthesia juice too?
But he continued to tell me that they had asked me a whole bunch of questions before I was ‘fully’ awake, to which I answered truthfully. God help us all. They don’t call it truth serum for nothing. I don’t remember the questions or my answers.
“At least I got the prescription thing figured out,” I mumbled, thinking back to the specific instructions I had typed out earlier.
A smile stretched across my husband’s face, “Do you want to see what you typed?”
Saved onto this man's phone, was the following text I had sent him under anesthesia.
Akdi; jdifkjaa; Teresa ki ewoir
Jkjdiafkel oaahudojkjk ihikdiofo555
Dja4574 aodhfodljdodj dldioas100
I worked so hard on that too.
I remember lying in the chair while they wrapped cords and IV’s around me. They strapped oxygen to my nose and assured me everything would be okay. I got the distinct feeling they were preparing for the worst with all the nonsense strapped to me. I just smiled and pretended it didn’t bother me. Ah, but my face wouldn’t let me lie!
“Are you okay,” one of the nurses asked.
I nodded. I figured telling her I was about to throw up wouldn’t help speed the process along. Then the dentist walked in, he looked at my vitals on the screen and then leaned over me.
“Hey, Laura,” he said, “We’re going to take good care of you. I’m going to start administering the anesthesia—”
The next thing I know, I’m sitting in a random wheelchair, in the middle of a room I’d never seen before. I couldn’t feel my face or anything for that matter. Of course, I was really dazed and sleepy, but that didn’t stop my face from reacting. Occasionally a nurse or the doctor would bend down and look at me, face to face.
You know, even under anesthesia I had boundary issues. It was remarkable.
They wouldn’t say anything, they’d just look at me and then move on. But each time, that prompted me to give them my best ‘why are you here’ look. Normally, it would have been toned down a bit, but not with whatever they gave me. They got the full, unadulterated expression. I’m assuming that’s why they didn’t stay close long.
Each time I made a face at them, I could hear someone snicker behind me. It wasn’t until minutes later that I could feel someone’s hand rubbing my shoulder.
I turned to give whatever pervert that had their hands on me an awful look, only to find my husband.
Hello.
I don’t know how he got there, or how long he had been there, maybe the whole time? He was, however, enjoying the show my facial expressions were putting on.
Then came the time to leave. Which meant I had to walk to the door assisted. I wasn’t sure who was in charge, but someone needed to tell them this was a bad idea.
“Okay,” the nurse said, “Do you think you can stand up?”
She’s clearly never read any of my blogs.
I remember slipping my foot out of the footrest, I leaned forward to push myself up but out of nowhere, the carpet hurdled itself towards me. Rude.
“Okay, maybe not just yet,” the nurse called out as she caught me.
I tried to tell you.
My husband’s still giggling.
Finally, they got me to the car. My husband was starting the car when he looked at the prescription they had given me. I told him earlier that if he had any questions afterwards, to contact our pharmacist, Teresa. He had a question of course and asked me. I stared at him for a moment, wondering how he thought I could answer him. I looked like some odd version of a zombie chipmunk. Bloody gauze was stuffed in every corner of my cheeks. Not to mention, I was only working on 2% brain power at that point and all that juice was being used up to keep myself from drooling.
Bless my husband's heart, he goes through a lot because of me.
I did have enough brain power left to ask for his phone, where I then typed out specific instructions on where to call Teresa, what to ask her, and what to do from that point.
When I handed him back the phone, he stared at it for a while before he looked back up at me.
“Uh— you want me to call Teresa?”
I could not have been any more specific in my instructions. I nodded, all I wanted to do was lay down. He nodded back, looking a little concerned and a lot confused.
It wasn’t until later that night that I could form a decent thought. My husband came by and checked on me periodically. Right before bed, he asked me what I remembered from that day. Which wasn’t much. I then asked him how I got in the recovery room and how long I had been there. He informed me that I had gotten out of the surgical chair on my own, got in the wheelchair where they rolled me into the recovery room, and then called him back to sit with me.
Ladies and gentlemen, that was a lie. I wasn’t conscious until at least 15 minutes AFTER my husband entered the recovery room. I know. I was there. But everyone else was convinced I had done this on my own. Maybe they took some anesthesia juice too?
But he continued to tell me that they had asked me a whole bunch of questions before I was ‘fully’ awake, to which I answered truthfully. God help us all. They don’t call it truth serum for nothing. I don’t remember the questions or my answers.
“At least I got the prescription thing figured out,” I mumbled, thinking back to the specific instructions I had typed out earlier.
A smile stretched across my husband’s face, “Do you want to see what you typed?”
Saved onto this man's phone, was the following text I had sent him under anesthesia.
Akdi; jdifkjaa; Teresa ki ewoir
Jkjdiafkel oaahudojkjk ihikdiofo555
Dja4574 aodhfodljdodj dldioas100
I worked so hard on that too.
RSS Feed