Thursday, August 23, 2012

I Will Give You What I've Got.

BOOM! I walk into the oral surgeon's on time for the extraction of my wisdom teeth. BOOM, BOOM. Everything says BOOM because I have had a migraine for three days already and was throwing up the day before. Light switch BOOM. Shoe scuff BOOM. Metal instrument on pan BOOM. How are you, they ask, all politeness, looking elsewhere, fiddling with things. Fine, I say.

Pull up your sleeve, they say. We are going to start an IV. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. An IV. Fasting. I have no veins, kind lady. You will find on inspection that I simply have no veins. I do not wish to disappoint or inconvenience you. I am merely bloodless and cold. I am not a mammal. No veins. It will be fine, they assure. Certainly it will be fine. We are professionals, obviously. Start the nitrous. Stick. Poke. Squeeze your hand. Keep squeezing. Objects are going funny. Am I supposed to be awake? Is this Wonderland? I am cooperating. Cooperating means I squeeze. My blood, there is none. Four sticks. Your wife, says the doctor to Mike, has very small veins. She has very little body fat. They are hiding in the muscle. He has faith in them, though, these veins. They are in there, like tiny bits of soul wound through my flesh.

One more stick, he says, and if I can't make it work, he says, we will do this with the nitrous only. He nods. I nod. Consciousness bounces about the room like balloons. I am cooperating. I squeeze. Shut your eyes, I tell myself. Close your eyes and let that needle in. Let it into your vein. I imagine blood gushing forth to meet it. It presses. There is an ache. I'm in, he says. Then blackness.

Can you get up? Are you dizzy? Can you walk? No. Lie back down. Take more oxygen. Try again. Can you get up? Can you get up? Hold the wall. Sit here. Have a blanket. My husband appears solid out of thought, manifests out of a question unvoiced about his whereabouts.

Her upper jaw was supposed to spongy and soft, says the doctor. But it was made of granite. This surgery therefore was a ten on a scale of one to ten. We chiseled. We yanked. We cut. We grabbed. It will hurt. Take care of her. Special jaw, special veins. Uncooperative body parts. Should I still be squeezing? Ice now. Rest. No more need to squeeze.

At home, I cannot feel my mouth. How does one drink? Oatmeal is too textured, too rough. My hair is a wreck. Bloody gauze comes out, fresh gauze goes in. New pills appear. I sleep. What can I eat? My insides are on fire. I think I still need to eat, yes? How shall I get it in? The next day it occurs to me: Refried beans. I can eat these. Moving my jaw is difficult, like drawing with a cast. Somehow the beans get in. This is satisfactory. I am taking hydrocodone, it turns out. Isn't that what Rush Limbaugh took, my friend asks. Yes, and I think that's why my face is swollen. Perhaps I am also lilting right, spewing vitriole. I clean my mouth with salt water, in the hopes of expunging Rush. He comes out in tiny little fragments every time I rinse. I must be careful to get all of him.

Today I try with only ibuprofen. The pain is rather profound. Distracting, it is. I think I shall spin circles chasing my heels until I collapse in the ecstasy of centrifugal force. That'll shut out the dull, piercing ice pick to each cheekbone. I get up my Google Calendar. I will now Do Something Important. Spin, spin, spin. I call my friend Amy. Spin, spin, spin again. At noon, administer more refried beans, gargle salt water and repeat the exorcism of Rush. Perhaps I can write. Yes, but nothing leaks onto my page but the detritus from the inner spaces between each tooth; bitter-tasting, pinched and worked-over globs of unwanted waste.

I think, I will share it with them anyway. Because I'm big that way. I like to share. I will hand you whatever is in the dirtied-up napkin on the side of my plate, so you can have a bit. I am not selfish. I will give you what I've got. This is what I've got. Send a self-addressed stamped envelope and I will include a bit of bloody gauze.

21 comments:

  1. Did you know you were really typing this?

    Haha... I'm kidding! I love stream of consciousness.

    Or stream of unconsciousness, as the case might be!

    ReplyDelete
  2. Stream of consciousness? Was it that coherent? Are we live? Is this being recorded? Just file it all under TMI -- what I think of as the special beauty of my diseased brain.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Remember last time I said a post was my favorite? This is now my favorite. I love this. I also want to know whether you were completely aware when you were typing. And I love your selflessness. I'll keep my share on the interwebs, though, so no need for a stamp. Hope you got all of Rush out. Yew!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Sadly, I am still working on getting Rush out. He smells terrible, by the way. Actually, this is me fully conscious and unedited, on nothing more than amoxicillin and ibuprofen. Scary, huh? I normally translate it all into English. This time I didn't bother. I am glad you were amused. ;)

      Delete
  4. Ow. Ow, ow, ow... Ugh. Sorry. BTW, Hydrocodone is Vicodin, ala 'House.' Rush was taking Oxycontin, so you don't have to worry about being bombastic and belittling, just about being snarky and belittling.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. ...a much more likely danger, too, that snarky belittlement. I'd better go floss again. See if I can work THAT out.

      Delete
  5. This made me literally laugh out loud. Not at your pain, of course. I just pictured tiny screaming Rush Limbaughs lodged in your teeth and gums. I am impressed that there are no long pauses where you blacked out with your finger on "Enter". Who would do that? I ask you, who would do that?!

    Now, Gregory House in my teeth... that's something I could possibly get behind. Or in front of, as the case may be.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I think I STILL have Gregory House in my teeth, and I'm not convinced there isn't a fragment of Rush in there as well. Back to gargle with salt water! Who knows what other pill-addicted celebrities may be breeding in there?

      Delete
  6. I love reading you, even the semi-stoned and still in pain you.

    Oh, and "She has very little body fat." Yeah, I hear that all the time, too.
    *looking for the lightning that will surely strike me dead for the big fat lie*

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Yeah, well it's a relatively new one for me. Even after years of healthy eating, it took developing intolerances to gluten, dairy and natural sugars to really make me thin. At some point, you just realize food is not your friend anymore.

      Thanks for the props. I enjoy writing stream of consciousness pieces. In this case, it was nice to have the excuse of pain medication to explain the weirdness that would, I'm sure, be there in any case.

      Delete
  7. I swear you write better stoned out of your mind on hydrocodone than most people do straight up! I'm with Word on the body fat issue, I get so tired of hearing that day in and day out! *ducking, in case the lightning Word brought forth hits me, too*

    Hope you're feeling much better and having a mouth full of House isn't really such a bad thing, the man is brilliant! And a bit hot, as well!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I love House, too, although my tendency already to verge onto the territory of heartless, opinionated wit doesn't need any help. And I won't be as cute without the stubble or cane.

      Delete
  8. I've had much dental surgery, so know exactly where you're coming from. Except for that very little body fat thing. Nobody ever has trouble hitting my veins. Hope you feel much better by now.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Pshawww, it's all turkey twaddle anyway. They couldn't get blood when I was sixty pounds heavier than this either. The fat doesn't seem to much help me. What I need is a cure for this vampirism.

      Delete
  9. What a humorous post! Although, I'm sorry about the experience...I just got through nursing my son through his wisdom teeth extraction. He said some pretty funny stuff when I picked him up, of which he has no recollection!

    It gets better every day. Good luck with your recovery!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thanks, I appreciate it. I was very present to he danger off saying embarrassing things and so elected to remain utterly silent. At least that is my memory...

      Delete
  10. This is awesome. I'm so glad you posted :)

    ReplyDelete
  11. This is not what I wanted to hear. It's almost my time, I can feel it. The wisdom teeth want to come out. Can't it be cake? Nice and easy? Not fun, but not hell? Boo.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Well, Nellie, I have stood alone as having a jaw made of granite, teeth with two more roots than they were supposed to have and an angle difficult to excise. My doctor just told me that one of these was the worst tooth he has ever removed. So, I think I've got this category all tied up for pain and suffering. Then again, if anyone could out-do me with a worse scenario, it might be you...FYI: Now, when I blow my nose, it all comes out my mouth. Just sayin'.

      Delete
  12. This post may have been a little too brilliant. I'm feeling your pain. And I probably will suffer the vague aftertaste (not to mention smell) of Limbaugh all day.

    ReplyDelete

When you comment, it keeps fairies alive.

Don't forget to choose "subscribe by email" to receive follow-up comments. I almost always reply to comments, and you wouldn't want to miss that. It's all part of saving the fairies.

My Zimbio
Creative Commons License
Faith in Ambiguity by Tara Adams is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License