![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Wisdom: A Story of Pain
...As the story of my wisdom-teeth removal might be called on Lifetime. This is the tale of my adventures in oral surgery on Friday, a story that brings together Spaghetti-Os, nausea, and an incompetent nurse named Amy.
My story begins on Friday morning. I awoke from a nightmare in which, in violation of the anesthesia rules ("could cause DEATH"), I accidentally ate tapioca (?!) pudding on the way to surgery. In retrospect, that dream was clearly an ominous harbinger of doom, but at the time I just thought it was nerves. Doug and I arrived late for our check-in, but I got through the forms quickly and was in the operating chair on time.
The dentist used "liquid ice" to numb the crook of my elbow for the IV, but since my reaction to shots is more psychological than physical, I still did some deep breathing to hold off the usual cold sweat and shakes. "Have you had a baby?" asked the nurse. "It sounds like you're doing Lamaze." No, I haven't had a baby, but yes, I am a scaredy-pants dork -- thank you for asking. Luckily for me, I was soon beyond caring what the nurse thought. I was aware for much of the surgery -- at one point, I think I felt one of my teeth being broken up -- but thanks to the anesthetic, I didn't give a damn. When the procedure was finished, I couldn't stop giggling. I went home in high spirits, thinking that EVERYONE should have their wisdom teeth removed on a regular basis. Those feelings were tragically short lived.
Got home, slept. Woke up, changed gauze, ate soup, took Advil and hydrocodone (per dentist's orders), slept. Woke up, ate Spaghetti-Os, took more Advil and hydrocodone, tried to sleep. Developed pounding headache and queasiness, building to nausea, building to bye-bye cheap kiddy noodle-food. (Okay, I should've known better than the Spaghetti-Os, but childhood nostalgia is a powerful thing.) I tried again to go to sleep, but the headache wouldn't let me. More nausea, more attempts at cures...to make a (VERY) long story short, I was sick for the rest of the afternoon, to the point that I couldn't even keep a sip of water down. Doug drove me to the emergency room, where I endured the painfully slow check-in process ("How's her name spelled again? Oh, I thought you said 'Sydney'! Hee hee... okay... 'C'...") and then was sent off to a quiet room to wait for a doctor. I curled up on the couch while Quincy's song from Jaws ran through my head over and over again (repetitive thoughts are a weird headache side-effect for me).
Finally, I was brought to an ice-cold room and told to put on a hospital gown. Hooray! Almost cured! Dr. Cannon and Nurse Amy eventually came to see me (I swear; I'm not making this up from old General Hospital episodes). Dr. Cannon declared that I'd probably had a bad reaction to the anesthesia and would need an IV with fluids and medication for the headache and nausea. I'd also need to provide a urine sample; seeing as I was barely able to sit up on the gurney, much less head for the bathroom and go through the elaborate sample-collection procedure, I asked how he thought that was supposed to happen. In the usual manner of ER doctors, though, he was already long gone by the time I'd gotten the words out. Nurse Amy shoved me back and jabbed me with 5,000 needles tipped with acid, yet somehow never managed to hit a vein. She went for help, then returned hours later complaining that no one was available. I asked if they had any "liquid ice," and she looked at me like I'd asked her for a urine sample. "Uh...no. We have some numbing stuff, but it takes 45 minutes to work." She resumed the stabbing, thoughtfully including the area where I'd already had an IV at the dentist's. Ever had a second IV attempt in the same place as a previous one? Let me sum up the experience: Fuck. That.
Frustrated once more, intrepid Amy set out again to find help, this time returning with a cheerful bearded man in a T-shirt two sizes too small. He explained that my veins were hard to get to because I was dehydrated; he took his time and got the IV going on the FIRST ATTEMPT. I could have kissed him, but given the state of my mouth at that point, it would've been extremely unkind. The morphine (hooray!) quickly knocked me out. The next thing I knew, Doug was pushing me out to the car in a wheelchair. I slept well that night and woke up somewhat the worse for wear, but with liberal application of Gatorade and apple sauce, I was soon back to my old self.
Dr. Cannon never got his urine sample, either. Serves him right.
The preceding story includes a dangerous number of parentheses and run-on sentences. You have been retroactively warned. The author accepts no responsibility for any discomfort or bleeding that may result from use.
My story begins on Friday morning. I awoke from a nightmare in which, in violation of the anesthesia rules ("could cause DEATH"), I accidentally ate tapioca (?!) pudding on the way to surgery. In retrospect, that dream was clearly an ominous harbinger of doom, but at the time I just thought it was nerves. Doug and I arrived late for our check-in, but I got through the forms quickly and was in the operating chair on time.
The dentist used "liquid ice" to numb the crook of my elbow for the IV, but since my reaction to shots is more psychological than physical, I still did some deep breathing to hold off the usual cold sweat and shakes. "Have you had a baby?" asked the nurse. "It sounds like you're doing Lamaze." No, I haven't had a baby, but yes, I am a scaredy-pants dork -- thank you for asking. Luckily for me, I was soon beyond caring what the nurse thought. I was aware for much of the surgery -- at one point, I think I felt one of my teeth being broken up -- but thanks to the anesthetic, I didn't give a damn. When the procedure was finished, I couldn't stop giggling. I went home in high spirits, thinking that EVERYONE should have their wisdom teeth removed on a regular basis. Those feelings were tragically short lived.
Got home, slept. Woke up, changed gauze, ate soup, took Advil and hydrocodone (per dentist's orders), slept. Woke up, ate Spaghetti-Os, took more Advil and hydrocodone, tried to sleep. Developed pounding headache and queasiness, building to nausea, building to bye-bye cheap kiddy noodle-food. (Okay, I should've known better than the Spaghetti-Os, but childhood nostalgia is a powerful thing.) I tried again to go to sleep, but the headache wouldn't let me. More nausea, more attempts at cures...to make a (VERY) long story short, I was sick for the rest of the afternoon, to the point that I couldn't even keep a sip of water down. Doug drove me to the emergency room, where I endured the painfully slow check-in process ("How's her name spelled again? Oh, I thought you said 'Sydney'! Hee hee... okay... 'C'...") and then was sent off to a quiet room to wait for a doctor. I curled up on the couch while Quincy's song from Jaws ran through my head over and over again (repetitive thoughts are a weird headache side-effect for me).
Finally, I was brought to an ice-cold room and told to put on a hospital gown. Hooray! Almost cured! Dr. Cannon and Nurse Amy eventually came to see me (I swear; I'm not making this up from old General Hospital episodes). Dr. Cannon declared that I'd probably had a bad reaction to the anesthesia and would need an IV with fluids and medication for the headache and nausea. I'd also need to provide a urine sample; seeing as I was barely able to sit up on the gurney, much less head for the bathroom and go through the elaborate sample-collection procedure, I asked how he thought that was supposed to happen. In the usual manner of ER doctors, though, he was already long gone by the time I'd gotten the words out. Nurse Amy shoved me back and jabbed me with 5,000 needles tipped with acid, yet somehow never managed to hit a vein. She went for help, then returned hours later complaining that no one was available. I asked if they had any "liquid ice," and she looked at me like I'd asked her for a urine sample. "Uh...no. We have some numbing stuff, but it takes 45 minutes to work." She resumed the stabbing, thoughtfully including the area where I'd already had an IV at the dentist's. Ever had a second IV attempt in the same place as a previous one? Let me sum up the experience: Fuck. That.
Frustrated once more, intrepid Amy set out again to find help, this time returning with a cheerful bearded man in a T-shirt two sizes too small. He explained that my veins were hard to get to because I was dehydrated; he took his time and got the IV going on the FIRST ATTEMPT. I could have kissed him, but given the state of my mouth at that point, it would've been extremely unkind. The morphine (hooray!) quickly knocked me out. The next thing I knew, Doug was pushing me out to the car in a wheelchair. I slept well that night and woke up somewhat the worse for wear, but with liberal application of Gatorade and apple sauce, I was soon back to my old self.
Dr. Cannon never got his urine sample, either. Serves him right.
The preceding story includes a dangerous number of parentheses and run-on sentences. You have been retroactively warned. The author accepts no responsibility for any discomfort or bleeding that may result from use.
no subject
no subject
no subject