October 2, 2003
WTE
Apparently, I am exceptionally cute when doped up.
So. The Wisdom Teeth Experience. I'm sitting in the examination room, staring at this picture of rabid looking fish, squirming due to the wrist plate things that are monitoring my heart. There is a machine beeping, though certainly not to signify heart rate, as it beeps erratically and seemingly unprovoked. I am waiting, longing for the lump of my sweater to swell and make impassable my forearm. Did I mention I've never had an IV? Yes, well, I haven't.
Kind-Looking-Oral-Surgeon comes in, flanked by Stone-Faced-Assistant. I am chattered at in vain efforts to keep me from following what it is that they two are doing. Like, sharpening their weapons of Utmost Torture, prepping Gargantuan Needles of Doom, and, erm, casting googly eyes at eachother.
I pinch my eyes closed as my arm is being swathed, as I scramble for words to fill up my throat and distract me, the sound of my own voice the only sanctuary I have been given. Needle going in, and I am biting my lip and I swear it was more than just a little sting.
"O, o, that hurts."
"It's okay, it'll only burn for a minute and then you won't feel anything."
My eyes snap open, but the lights are seriously fading and I feel my limbs begin to droop like lead. Tingly. Heavy.
The next thing I remember (which is, indeed, a stretch to say, considering I was not truly coherent for nearly an hour after I woke up) is sitting in the dim recovery room, and the paneled door sliding open to reveal Mike's shadowed self in the doorway.
I started to cry.
He and the nurse tugged my sweater back onto me, and then she disappeared. Mike tries to help me up, and I just bury my face in his shirt and smell him and decide right then and there that it's time for a nap. They have pillows. Why the hell not?
Instead, Mike walks me out to the truck, reclines my seat and bundles a shirt for me to lay my head on. This is all Slow-Motion-Faerie-Land, kids. In retrospect, it was pretty awesome.
I wouldn't mind doing it all over again. It was kind of fun being not all there and having Mike dote on me. It's times like these that I'm sure he cares for me, you know, when he waits until the drugs have worn off to take advantage of me.
My teeth don't hurt. They feel strange and lumpy and the gums pull when I swallow. I've already accidentally used two straws (but I'm a light sipper), so I'm praying that I haven't done irreparable damage to my precious blood clots. I have a follow-up appointment next week, and I must remember to get a note from them to give to Professor Sadoff. I guess I could just show her the stitches, but I don't think she'd be super keen on that.
Sure I could've gone to school today. But where's the fun in getting oral surgery and not being able to fake pain that almost everyone else experiences?
I gave my Dad the Vicatin. He was thrilled, to say the least.
My aunt took me birthday shopping today. Honestly, I don't think anyone has spoiled me this much, ever. Except maybe my 10th birthday when I got the Malibu Barbie Jeep.
At any rate.
She bought me a new coat, fawn-coloured wool and knee-length, with a faux-fur collar and lovely tortoiseshell buttons up the front and on the sleeves. A scarf, two sweaters, and two shirts followed. Then, the dress.
Total Fifties House Wife Cocktail. Black. Crayon Red Crinoline. Red rose pinned at the bust, just below one of the halter top straps. I bought red gloves to match, and red rhinestone jewelry. I cannot wait to go dancing and get drunk on my birthday, whilst wearing this dress, looking absolutely ridiculously vintage hot, and trying to seduce my equally inebriated boyfriend.
Pictures shall follow. O, yes, pictures shall follow.
My aunt is too good to me, and so is Mike.
We curled up in bed and he only made a teasing fuss about my drooling on the sheet. I was fairly lethargic and drowsy all day (I think, even outside of the after effects of the anesthesia, the steroids I am taking in order to heal faster are to be given some credit), and we we spent the night in front of the television, watching cartoons.
"My poor little girl." He jests, wrapping his arms around me as I gaze at him blurry-eyed. "I have to take care of you."
And he is joking, and he is slightly serious, and my feminist side is railing, and my feminine side is swooning, and his fingers are kneading and pleading, and mine have found a comfortable hollow.
It is amazing how grown-up all of this is.
astera at 10:43 p.m.