I'm bad at introductions so I thought I'd skip that and launch straight into why they actually GAVE me pain medicine. Almost for free!
About a year and a half ago when I belonged to the most unholy of all professions, Freelancers, and thus had no health insurance, I began teething. That is because after 22 years of waiting, my wisdom teeth decided to be born after all. They also decided to take after me and half ass it. So I was stuck with a molar sticking partially out of my gum which was slightly uncomfortable. The real problem was that due to my moderate tendency towards hypochondria, I grew concerned that it would become infected causing some butcher in the emergency room to give me a jaw-rectomy, remove half my face, and leave me unable to chew and/or date. Sometimes I do both at once.
I discussed this issue with my then boss, a catalogue copywriter who smoked brown cigarettes from France and smelled like gin, because I often discuss inappropriate personal issues with practical strangers. Ergo blog. And also how I know about the bowel movement regularity of the girls from my college dorm. So my boss gave me the name of a fabulous Manhattan dentist down the street. I knew that it was meant to be because it had been rainy that week and I could access his office using the underground Rockefeller labyrinth which should NEVER be attempted when you are coming back late after lunch or if you've had more than 2 drinks.
True story, he had a pretty view from his office but $500 later I decided not to let this bad, bad man remove my teeth for several million dollars. When I started craving rawhide bones earlier this fall, I knew the time had come especially since I had dental insurance and wanted to be able to chew for the big family Thanksgiving trip to Florida.
On top of my hypochondria, I also greatly dislike dentists. Let's just say that I cried the last time I had a cavity filled. When I told this to the oral surgeon, he agreed that it might be best to knock me the fuck out before going in. Also I told him that I bite and if he wanted proof he could look at Beau's arm.
That's pretty much the back story to why I got to leave work early yesterday and take a lovely walk across the Longfellow bridge to MGH where they took away my clothing, purse, and underpants and forced me to wear ugly, size XXL hospital PJs that had an unearthly orange stain on the shoulder. But they did provide those socks with little grippies on the bottom of which I am a HUGE fan. Dressed in such an ensemble I spent an hour or so reading in the lobby with people who were not dressed like they lived in a mental ward.
Finally they brought me back to the pre-op area where I was given a little bed of my own with little privacy curtains of my own. Come to think of it, they really gave me a lot of things yesterday. The list of giving continues thusly:
- Warm blankets ... and I don't mean blankets which make you warm. I mean blankets which have been toasted prior to wrapped around you. It was like being a lovely little hospitalized burrito. If my dryer wasn't 3 flights of stairs away, I would do it every night.
- An IV full of yumminess which was very appreciated because I wasn't allowed to eat or drink anything past midnight the night before. Not even water... or worse, coffee.
- Medicine to "relax" me. Or, as the younger anesthesiologist called it, my Friday cocktail. Finally, someone spoke my language. I asked him to join me, but he said that would be a bad idea. Whatev, his loss.
Sometime after my cocktail, I woke up in the recovery room babbling about how I wanted to see Beau. They brought him to me (more of the giving) looking very concerned with that cute little furrowed brow that he does whenever I look ill or he's confused by something. Despite the thoughtful presents, I was pretty ready to get out of there so I stumbled around until I got my pants on the right way and my shoes (mostly) on. Once that was done they plopped me in a wheelchair and handed me off to Beau which was excellent because I like to be lazy whenever I see the opportunity to do so.
As my sister, the artist formerly known as Bologna, had informed me Friday morning, it's best to pick up your pain meds before the hospital goodies wear off. Though she didn't say it like that. She told me about when my brother-in-law had his wisdom teeth removed and delayed in the getting-of-the-pain-meds because he thinks he's a tough guy which resulted in his hollering and kicking things in the backseat of a car. Thanks for the consoling words, Bologna! I wasn't already about to CRAP MY PANTS before the surgery or anything. Anyway, that's why we went directly from the hospital to the local CVS where I handed them my prescription papers and told them "Um, now" when they asked when I'd like to pick up the goods.
Beau and I hung out in the little loungey place for a few minutes where I kind of dozed until they called my name. It wasn't until after the lady in front of us in line had inquired into my apparent state of postsurgeryness and I'd paid for my narcotics that Beau informed me that I had blood all over my face. Oh. And I thought people were just staring at my ice pack cum hat. Dear Internet People, what have your mothers been teaching you? Isn't it common practice to let a friend know when they have a boogey hanging out of their nose or, ya know, blood spattered across their cheek?
I digress because Beau then took me home and made me soup since he knows how Hangry (that's hungry gone angry) I get when I haven't eaten in a few hours and at this point it had been 24 hours since I'd put something yummy in my mouth which is 24 hours too many for my taste.
Here I am now: camped out on the couch with a stack of DVDs, a bottle of Percocet and all the ice cream a girl could ever want. On that note, Ima go watch a little TV and play with my toes. Goodnight!
