This weekend I got my wisdom teeth out. I absolutely abhorred the idea of getting them out away from the safety and comfort of home –abhorred the idea enough to schedule the extraction for the last few days of Christmas break, just when I was supposed to be enjoying myself the most. However, my mom (inspired by the vast difference in oral surgery prices between North Carolina and Utah) had other ideas. Luckily for both of us—but mostly me—my wonderful Aunt Andra lives in Genola, which is but 25 minutes from BYU campus, and was able and willing to nurse me back to health post-surgery. Also, the title of this blog post was her idea.
And so getting my wisdom teeth out became a not-too-traumatic experience. Highlights.
I don't get loopy on drugs. It's quite sad, actually—though I have now had two opportunities to be hilariously intoxicated, I tend to, instead, become stupid and slow. As I apparently said soon after surgery, though I'm taking this on faith since I don't remember it at all, “I'm like me. Only retarded.”
However, I do become incredibly forgetful. I call it anesthesia amnesia. Yesterday while leafing through my wallet to pay for groceries, I found that my drivers license was missing. Frantically I searched my pockets, wracked my memory, and texted my mother, praying for the best and dreading the worst. I turned to my Aunt Andra with a feeble hope, asking, “Do you think any of the little kids could have grabbed something out of my wallet? I'm missing my license!” To my utter perplexion, she laughed. Then she pulled it out of her purse and handed it back to me. “You gave it to me a few days ago so that I could fill a prescription. You don't remember that???”
Nuh-uh. Not at all.
(On an unrelated note, dictionary.com says that 'perplexion' isn't a word. But I like it. So I'm keeping it.)
After we got home from the oral surgeon—more accurately, after I woke up from a four hour semi-coma—my life gained a kind of routine. For 2-3 days, I
-did crossword puzzles
-ate ice cream
-periodically retied ice-filled socks to my face
-told the mirror that “I just look chubby, not swollen!”
The aforementioned amazing Aunt Andra assisted in the sock-tying and self-image-reaffirming when needed.