Nine AM this morning we were in the oral surgeon's office, ready for the great extraction. I didn't even have to drag Mary into the office kicking or screaming. She actually went voluntarily, though she was mumbling something about "stupid, why am I dong this" under her breath and hoping that I would turn the car around and take her home. But she's a tough broad when she has to be, so there we were. I may have been more nervous than she, wondering what kind of suffering I would have to put up with afterwards. Yeh, it's all about me.
Mary opted for a local anesthetic and some "laughing gas" to get her through, since a general anesthetic wouldn't allow her to clean the house, wash the windows, cut the grass, and paint the window trim when she got home. She actually planned on doing a bunch of stuff like that. I fully expected her to curl into a whimpering ball and hide in the corner begging for death when we got home. But, like I said, she's a tough broad.
They tell you that this type of procedure, wisdom tooth extraction, usually takes only about a half hour to complete, assuming no complications occur. So when it got to be an hour that I spent sitting in the waiting room waiting ( I guess that's why they call it a waiting room), I was beginning to imagine all sorts of horrific scenarios taking place in the depths of that torture chamber. I just knew that somehow when he pulled that top wisdom tooth out, the doctor didn't get his finger in the opening fast enough to prevent her brains from leaking out, leaving her a rutabaga forever. I hate rutabagas. A nice acorn sqaush would have been nice, though.
Anyway, the nurse finally appeared to inform me that all was well, there had been an unexpected difficulty with the lower tooth that was fractured and had an abcess that was HUGE and required the use of extraordinary equipment and expertise (I had visions of the doc scurrying across the street to get Joe Muscles and his Jackhammer from the construction site) to remove, and if they could just get her to shut up for a while she would be released to my custody.
It seems that laughing gas, when applied to a normal person, induces a quiet lethargy and calmness in the recipient, allowing all sorts of mayhem to be perpetrated on her. However, we are not talking "normal" when we discuss my loving wife. Of course, the gas turned her into a nonstop chatterbox, yakking away incessantly, while the poor dentist tried to work his fingers past her rapidly flapping lips and into her mouth. I'm sure he was longing for a roll of duct tape to seal the offending orifice, but that would have only made his job that much more difficult. In situations where she rambles on and on, I've found that a hammer does the trick. But he didn't ask me.
Eventually the deed was done and she reappeared, somewhat swollen in the cheek area, but still talking-- unintelligibly because of the mouthful of cotton stuffed in her mouth. I knew it was unintelligible because I actually listened to her for a change. The doctor left her with specific instructions to take it easy for the rest of the day so as not to run the risk of tearing the sutures in her mouth and to take the Percoset he prescribed for the inevitable pain that would hit her when the anesthetic wore off. I helped her to the car (for once she was moving as slowly as I ) and brought her home to a quiet day of relaxing and recovering.
Yeh, right. She made threats about vacuuming until I assured her that I would do that tomorrow. She refused to take the Percoset ( I was so looking forward to her being comotose from drugs for awhile), instead ingesting fistfuls of advil. She proceeded to run around the house dusting and then insisted that I make her some lunch. I had gone to the grocery store to stock up on cold soft foods like yogurt and applesauce to sustain her, but she was having visions of a raw steak to ravage. Did I mention she's a tough broad? She accepted the yogurt and some cottage cheese while mumbling about concentration camps and starvation. I caught her painting that window trim this afternoon--she snuck out while my back was turned for just one second. I think she was contemplating joining the carpenters who were building a garage at one of the neighbors, just to keep busy.
She has finally slowed down this evening. She is still talking, now on the phone to her best friend, relating the events of the day. At least she's sitting down and mostly relaxing. I however am looking longingly at the Brandy bottle and thinking seriously about that Percoset for myself.