While back in New Zealand this summer (winter for all you North Americans), and after a routine checkup which I described previously, I discovered that I had issues with the wisdom teeth. Specifically, three of them were a royal pain in the ass, so to speak, and the fourth hadn't even bothered to show up, buried, as it was, somewhere in the depths of my lower jaw. Which, I had been informed, would snap briskly should I ever find myself unwittingly on the wrong end of an angry drunk. This reminded me of the days when I used to fight full-contact taekwondo, a jarring, braincell-destroying period during which I was hit in the head, hard, a good number of times, often by feet. I guess I got lucky.

Not lucky enough, however, to avoid imminent surgery, and yesterday that day came. The doc was one of the city's most reknowned oral surgeons, but oddly at some point in his illustrious career he had elected to expand his horizons by learning cosmetic surgery as well. His waiting room was full of before-and-after shots of various people having improved themselves by the use of his services. "If for some reason I leave here with breasts," I said to him at the consultation, "they'd better be at least Cs."

The op itself was pretty easy. The surgeon was a funny guy, and he had some good drugs. "The first thing you'll feel with the drugs," he said, while three nurses bustled about behind me setting up equipment and handing him things, "is that your hand will probably start going a bit cold."

He paused while it did, as if on cue. "Then after that you'll start getting a bit high. That's the fun part."

A few seconds later my brain started to float, and I could feel the narcotics taking over from the back of my mind like a shadow. "Take good care of me, doc," I said. I've always called doctors 'doc', ever since I was a kid. The Girl thinks it's rude, but I've never met one who objected. "I'm going away for a little while."

"Welcome back," he replied, "we're done."

It's so jarring the way that happens.

I lay in the chair a few moments until the temporal confusion wore off. Then The Girl helped me get home. I had asked the doc beforehand if he would skip the regular painkillers for something a little more potent, like synthetic morphine, and he did, which is for the best. The off-the-shelf stuff never really works that well for me. So now it's a few days of watching movies and playing video games with The Girl, and floating around on a fluffy painless cloud. It's a good excuse to take a weekend off, but still, I don't recommend it to anyone. Apart from the morphine. That I recommend.

Funny, I no feel any less wise. Just brain go slow.

Posted by: andre at September 20, 2005 08:46 AM

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