Well, things didn't turn out quite as intended. It's been a little over two weeks to the day since the surgery, and it hasn't exactly been plain sailing. The surgery itself, as I've mentioned, went pretty smoothly, and the first two or three days of recovery were easy. There was profuse bleeding for the first couple of hours, then minor bleeding for the rest of the day. I went to sleep with medical swabs wedged between my back teeth (formerly second-to-back teeth), under the influence of some pretty good drugs. For a few brief moments I almost considered the possibility of choking to death on gauze while unconscious and high, but I couldn't finish formulating the thought before I fell asleep. Uneventful.

The next day was similar, but with less blood. I was on painkillers, anti-inflammatories and antibiotics, and The Girl had a schedule going to make sure I didn't come down, which is to say, was appropriately drugged up at all the correct times. We entertained ourselves through various means, playing video games and watching movies and downloaded TV (Cowboy Bebop is brilliant, but if you're an anime fan you don't need to be told that) and just generally doing nothing. I ate soft foods that required little chewing, but took no pleasure in their consumption. Not great, but under the circumstances, no complaints.

Then it all started to go sideways. Three of the extractions were fine and offered no further trouble. In fact, thanks to the drugs, there was narry a squeak from any of them. The fourth was a little more complicated. I'll spare you the details, but because of its location and attendant complications, the lower right of my jaw took a lot more surgical trauma than the other three corners. Instead of getting better, it grew worse. On the third night, I woke up at 5am needing more painkillers. On the fourth, 2am. On the fifth I was still up at 2am watching CSI on late night TV because the painkillers had stopped working and I couldn't sleep. Back to the doc.

Examination. More drugs. More pain. Two more days. Back to the doc. More treatments. More drugs. More money required to fill prescriptions. By now I'd made friends with the doc's receptionist, who was very sweet and found answers to lots of complicated questions over the phone.

Nine days, nine days after the surgery, things turned around. Finally, I could get a moment's peace. I could leave the house again without feeling miserable. I was no longer preoccupied with the idea that my lower jaw was rotting out of my skull. I could take pleasure in eating again. I could go back to the gym. I no longer wished for death. There's still quite a bit of healing required to get back to normal, and I have a lingering numbness on one side of my lower lip that may take months to recede, but at least the ordeal is largely over.

You don't need to hear any of this, but I think for most folks it's not as bad as I describe. I was a complicated case. If I'd had four routine extractions instead of only the first three, I'm pretty sure it would've all gone smoothly. Couple, maybe three days recovery, no problems. Yeah, right. I'd never get off that lightly, it's just not the way my life works. I experience everything the hard way. It builds character, or some bullshit like that, is what people say. Or in this case it builds tolerance to prescription painkillers and perpetuates the stereotype that every dentist is a closet sadist who has failed to come to terms with the depth of his own pathos.

Posted by: Gord at October 19, 2005 12:25 AM

Posted by: Patrick at October 24, 2005 08:24 PM

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