Last October, I had all my wisdom teeth surgically removed. It was a long awaited day. For over a year preceding that day, I had a tooth infection on average once every month. My wisdom teeth had fully grown, erupted from the gum - but were in problematic positions. My right bottom wisdom tooth was practically horizontal, and my left bottom wisdom tooth left a tight margin of exposed gum, vulnerable to loose food.
I have visited the dentist multiple times prior, for rounds of antibiotics which always made my stomach uneasy. Once, the swelling was so bad that the dentist had to remove part of the gum overlying the problematic tooth. The bleeding wouldn't stop afterwards so he had to give me two stitches. When the local anaesthetic wore off, it felt like a saw drilling in my mouth. It was that same day that the dentist realised that enough was enough, I had to be referred over to the maxillofacial surgeons in the hospital to get these buggers removed.
During the maxfax appointment, I sincerely hoped that I didn't have to go down the route of surgery - but even the doctor was adamant that that was the only option. "Either this, or recurrent infections for many many years," he said in his Scottish accent. They booked me in for a day surgery date 3 months from that day. One would think that 3 months was sufficient time to properly prepare oneself to go under the knife, but truthfully I was very anxious and dreaded it wholeheartedly. It might be my low tolerance to pain - but it didn't help that online chatrooms hosted many post-wisdom tooth removal stories that were very grim.
On the morning of the surgery, A and I hopped into a cab to the hospital. We checked in and waited to be called. I had to leave A in the waiting room as I robed up and waited for my turn in the cubicle. A dentist came in for written consent and talked through what I would be feeling like afterwards. Standard stuff. I was waiting patiently in my cubicle when I was called to wait in a womens' waiting area - a room with a TV and some magazines. There were 4 of us at the start, but one by one each lady was called to the OT. Thinking that I would be one of the first ones, every time a nurse opens the door I would be eagerly perched up on the edge of my seat. However, I was last amongst the group. I even had time to have a nap.
When they did finally call me, I was more than ready to get this whole ordeal over with. I laid on the trolley bed and confirmed my name. A nurse started putting a BP cuff, oxygen probe and ECG lines on me. An anaesthetist came later and tried to put a cannula into my right hand. Probably I should have warned them that I have very difficult veins, but I let them poke around for access for a good 5 minutes. "Sorry Miss," he said, "We got there in the end." I smiled sympathetically as I recalled the large number of times I had to say the same thing to my patients.
Oxygen mask was on - I was breathing slowly, noticing the mist forming within. And before I knew it, it was pitch black. No idea how long for. Next thing I remember was being awoken in a cubicle. Tasting gauze in my mouth, I was in and out of consciousness - just about able to make out the beeping machines and small chatter of nurses. At some point I was asked to transfer myself from bed to chair. The sedatives still had a strong hold on me, it felt like my body weighed twice as much as it did. I plonked myself on the chair and tried to fight the urge to just crawl into a ball and sleep. After a while, I slowly got dressed and met A where I left him. He took my hand and steadied my steps into the taxi back home. Looking back, I probably slept in the car as I now have no recollection of it. But we did eventually reach home, and abode of familiarity and safety, returning with my whole self more or less intact, just minus 4 teeth.
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