I don’t want to have my wisdom teeth removed.
I consider myself a brave person. I’m a Gryffindor, after all, and bravery is important to me. I handle pain well. Normally, I would stride into something like discomfort/pain with my head high, considering it an adventure.
Well, I don’t want my wisdom teeth removed. I flinch and get squeamish and then hide under the table. Jonathan will testify to me lying on our bed last night wailing about it.
My melodrama results from this: I’ve psyched myself into terror because of Jonathan’s experience with wisdom teeth extraction.
Pain meds don’t work normally on him. He had laughing gas for his procedure, and guess what? It didn’t work. Laughing gas apparently operates as a memory-eraser: in other words, you’re aware of the entire procedure, all of the pain, but then you forget it, so it feels like you were out. Well, he didn’t forget. Hearing that, knowing that I’d be conscious but then forget scared the marshmallows out of me. (I’ve been swearing with food names lately, after watching Gortimer Gibbons and Life on Normal Street.) I psyched myself out. It wasn’t even the pain that scared me so much as the knowledge that I would walk through a life event conscious that I would forget everything that was happening to me. Like living a dream, knowing you’ll forget it. It was freaky.
Given my complete psyche out, we’ve opted to give me anesthesia so I can just calm down. Am I calm? No. Am I calmer? Yes. Am I calm? No. Heck no.
I’ll be documenting all of the melodrama up and coming with my wisdom teeth extraction. This was Episode One, where I explained why I’m so freaked. Episode Two will be about meeting my oral surgeon and whether he’s as creepy in real life as he looks in his photo.
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