Wisdom is a Dish Best Served Mushy

About 6-months ago I woke up with a horrible stabbing pain in my mouth. After prolonged agony I found what I thought was a 5th wisdom tooth coming in. After a moment of panic and confusion, I figured out that my wisdom tooth that had already come in, only it had started to shift to the side, outward toward my jawbone and was scraping against bone. It was one of the most painful experiences I've had. I called up my dentist who recommended an oral surgeon for the task. I rang the surgeon's office and they were like, "We can get you in for a consultation tomorrow but we can't extract until about 3-weeks." I gasped (surely a gay-gasp) and replied, "If you don't get this thing out tomorrow I'm going to do have to do it myself." She started to laugh and I quickly said, "Mm, I'm not kidding. This has to come out."

She penciled me in and the doc came in early to see me the NEXT DAY, which was so great, and he removed my wisdom tooth (which was only numero quatro, not a 5th wisdom tooth (which can actually happen, by the way). So anyway I sent them a "thank you" card for seeing me so quickly and being so helpful. Good for me. This isn't the point of this story so let's get to it:

I scheduled an appointment to get my OTHER three wisdom teeth removed preventatively, avoiding the chance of future pain and discomfort. My roommate Mike was free the day of my surgery and offered to take me there and help me out. Props to Mike. So we get to the oral surgeon's office and I check-in with the receptionist, pay my bill and soon after head back. The people had all remembered me from last time and were very nice. I get in the doctor's chair and the oral surgeon comes in the room. He thanked me gratefully for sending a "thank you" card--I guess they rarely get them, considering they torture people for a living. I said, "well, my Mom raised me properly yada yada," or something like that. Props to Momma. So they hook me up to an IV and put a heart monitor on me and start strapping me down to the bed. Like, my arms, legs, chest, everything. He said that I might have a dream when I go under and they don't want to risk me running a marathon in my dreams while they are operating. So I'm all hooked up and have a gas mask on my face and the doctor says, "We just served you your favorite martini, and you're at your best friend's party and..." OUT. The next thing I know, I'm in the lobby of the hospital, in a wheel chair, with a mouthful of gauze and a head wrap, waiting for Mike to bring the car around. There was a lot I missed I guess. Following is the interim:

Mike brought his laptop so he could get some emails out while I was being operated on. A mere 15-minutes after I go back to the OR, the nurse emerges and says to Mike, "We're all finished. Do you want to go back and see him?" Mike walks back with the nurse, walks in and finds me with my pants around my knees saying, "SURPRISE!" I guess I thought it would have been funny--nay hilarious--if I flashed Mike while high as kite. Front side, not back. Front. Well, it would have been funny if the nurse wasn't in the room also. She bolts out of the door, yelping like a kicked dog. She got the doctor and brought him into the room. He sternly questions, "Did you just do what she said you did?" I bashfully remain quiet and he evidently notices my fly is still down. My fate is sealed. He says, "That's unacceptable--but I'll let you get away with it because you're so drugged up,"In like a doctor-y kinda parent tone. Yeah.

The doctor escorts Mike and I to a "containment room" where I can be monitored to make sure I don't have an allergic reaction to the anesthetics. While we are in there some how Mike produces a book on Balboa Park. I start reciting everything there ever was to know about Balboa Park: its history, its origin--all while I have a literal mouth FULL of gauze. I was completely inaudible but Mike let me ramble on, knowing that if he said anything I would try removing the gauze from my bleeding oral cavity.

After everything that happened at the oral surgeon's office, Mike and I head to Rite Aid to get my prescription filled. We do so and afterwards walk across the street to Jamba Juice. Mind you I'm extremely drugged-up and have a mouthful of cotton. The lady takes one look at me, with my puffy cheeks, glazed-over eyes, and icy head wrap and says, "Wisdom teeth, huh?" This little cashier must have seen the like before. We get our Jamba and head back to Rite Aid, get my prescription and head home. I continue to lie on the couch in a groggy, half-lucid state for the next day or so and in a tremendous amount of pain.

My diet now consists of pudding, mashed potatoes, soup, broth and yogurt. Wisdom is a dish best served mushy.