The Wizzes
Thirty-two hours ago, two of my wisdom teeth (the evolution of which we discussed in the previous blog entry) were wrenched from my poor mouth. Other than the lack of sleep and tears that preceded the surgery, everything went well.
I was extremely happy to find that my oral surgeon lacked the typical sadistic elements one has come to expect from those crazy individuals who specialize in ripping teeth from people's heads. He was not only a good-looking man (something even my husband pointed out to me during the consultation when my surgeon briefly turned his back on us to examine the x-rays), but he seemed to agree with my own (unmedical) diagnosis that I did not need to remove all four of my wisdom teeth. While he did persuade me to remove the one tooth I was afraid of extracting, I figured he met me halfway, so why not? I signed the forms, my husband was hustled from the room, and surgery commenced.
Other than the extremely painful IV process, which entailed the nurse repeatedly jabbing me in the hand and complaining that my "veins moved," the entire process has gone well so far. The pain has been minimal--though I am currently boycotting the ice packs, as they require me to sit and/or lay in uncomfortable positions whilst trying to balance them on either side of my face. The swelling is barely noticeable and I am cautiously optimistic that the healing process will continue smoothly.
The only remaining concern is my unreasonable fear of developing dry sockets, something I have been told (a bit unhelpfully) is more painful than childbirth (and let's be frank, part of the reason I have no desire to have children is the pain factor). My oral surgeon told me if I made it five days without dry sockets, I was in the clear. This has resulted in my constant vigilance against anything that could cause a dry socket, and a fair amount of tears when I confessed (a tad hysterically) to my mom that I had unconsciously sucked on my water bottle. Once she calmed me down by shoving another hydrocodone down my throat and pushing ice packs into my face, I fell asleep, silently whispering to myself, "No dry sockets, no dry sockets, no dry sockets" in much the same way those contestants on "Press Your Luck" intoned "No whammies" while spinning the wheel.
I still haven't completely forgiven evolution, but if everything continues to progress as well as it has so far, we may be able to come to some sort of understanding.
Some day.
I was extremely happy to find that my oral surgeon lacked the typical sadistic elements one has come to expect from those crazy individuals who specialize in ripping teeth from people's heads. He was not only a good-looking man (something even my husband pointed out to me during the consultation when my surgeon briefly turned his back on us to examine the x-rays), but he seemed to agree with my own (unmedical) diagnosis that I did not need to remove all four of my wisdom teeth. While he did persuade me to remove the one tooth I was afraid of extracting, I figured he met me halfway, so why not? I signed the forms, my husband was hustled from the room, and surgery commenced.
Other than the extremely painful IV process, which entailed the nurse repeatedly jabbing me in the hand and complaining that my "veins moved," the entire process has gone well so far. The pain has been minimal--though I am currently boycotting the ice packs, as they require me to sit and/or lay in uncomfortable positions whilst trying to balance them on either side of my face. The swelling is barely noticeable and I am cautiously optimistic that the healing process will continue smoothly.
The only remaining concern is my unreasonable fear of developing dry sockets, something I have been told (a bit unhelpfully) is more painful than childbirth (and let's be frank, part of the reason I have no desire to have children is the pain factor). My oral surgeon told me if I made it five days without dry sockets, I was in the clear. This has resulted in my constant vigilance against anything that could cause a dry socket, and a fair amount of tears when I confessed (a tad hysterically) to my mom that I had unconsciously sucked on my water bottle. Once she calmed me down by shoving another hydrocodone down my throat and pushing ice packs into my face, I fell asleep, silently whispering to myself, "No dry sockets, no dry sockets, no dry sockets" in much the same way those contestants on "Press Your Luck" intoned "No whammies" while spinning the wheel.
I still haven't completely forgiven evolution, but if everything continues to progress as well as it has so far, we may be able to come to some sort of understanding.
Some day.
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