"Hi, My Name Is Chubby."
Ouch.
Okay, so I raced home from Storm Mountain on Tuesday, very much against my will. Why? So that yesterday I could face one of my biggest fears: the oral surgeon.
That's right, I was lucky enough to have my wisdom teeth removed. Yippee-ki-yi-yay.
My mom drove me into the doctor's office at promptly 9:30 in the morning, where I got to sign a couple pieces of paper (sure, you can use my old medical files) and sit. And sit and sit and sit. Fine, it was only about 20 minutes' worth of sitting, but you try sitting still when you know you're about to go under the knife.
None of said teeth had poked through yet, so they all had to be dug out. And when I say "all," I mean all four, top and bottom, left and right. The doctor (who vaguely resembled the most forgettable face in history) tells me all this, then runs through the actual procedure, which, to me, sounded rather similar to medieval torture rituals.
Next, they excuse my mom, which is my cue to suppress the five-year-old inside me who wanted to yell, "No! Don't go, Mommy!" Then, I'm lead down the hallway to a door marked "OR."
The operating room looked mysteriously like any random dentist's office, right down to the annoying light that hovers over your head. That is, right up until they had to "hook me up." Now, I've never had any form of surgery before, so this whole "let's attach her in as many ways as possible to one machine" thing was a new experience. They hook me up, and once again I'm left to sit and amuse myself. (What do I find amusing here? Watching my heart rate increase and decrease at my will. I frightened one poor nurse that way. It was fun.)
Then, they hook me up to the IV, a.k.a. the drugs that will knock me out for the duration.
"You'll start to feel sleepy," Dr. M. tells me.
Okay. So I sit some more ... but no sleepy feeling for a minute or so.
A nurse asks me if I'm starting to feel sleepy, and I answer honestly. No. (I leave out the part where I freak out and run away at the prospect of feeling every bit of the surgery).
She looks worried for a moment, and then everything goes black.
No sleepy feeling. Just thunk, and I'm out.
The next thing I know, I'm waking up in a different room, one I've never seen before, between two other unfortunate souls, my head wrapped in ice. You want to horrifically disorient someone? That's the way to do it.
Apparently, I hadn't wanted to wake up all that badly. Anybody who knows my sleeping "habits" over the last couple of months might understand why I refused to wake up. That was the best sleep I've had since physics first semester last year.
But finally, the whole ordeal is almost over. They unhook me from everything and, with some difficulty, get me into a wheelchair (I'm still puzzling over how they got me to the recovery room in the first place, being that I was rather unconscious right then), and wheel me out to the van and my mother. Some other stuff happened in between there, but I really don't remember a single bit of it. I was conscious, sure, but those drugs were, well, pretty awesome.
I survived yesterday with the help of pain relievers, and I woke up today rather swollen and sore. I resemble a chipmunk now (or Kellie doing her Chubbs joke), and it's annoying me that I can't eat whatever I want to. Other than that, things could be much worse.
But now I have to go to ice my head again. Have a great week, everybody.
Reality? That's where the pizza delivery guy comes from!
Okay, so I raced home from Storm Mountain on Tuesday, very much against my will. Why? So that yesterday I could face one of my biggest fears: the oral surgeon.
That's right, I was lucky enough to have my wisdom teeth removed. Yippee-ki-yi-yay.
My mom drove me into the doctor's office at promptly 9:30 in the morning, where I got to sign a couple pieces of paper (sure, you can use my old medical files) and sit. And sit and sit and sit. Fine, it was only about 20 minutes' worth of sitting, but you try sitting still when you know you're about to go under the knife.
None of said teeth had poked through yet, so they all had to be dug out. And when I say "all," I mean all four, top and bottom, left and right. The doctor (who vaguely resembled the most forgettable face in history) tells me all this, then runs through the actual procedure, which, to me, sounded rather similar to medieval torture rituals.
Next, they excuse my mom, which is my cue to suppress the five-year-old inside me who wanted to yell, "No! Don't go, Mommy!" Then, I'm lead down the hallway to a door marked "OR."
The operating room looked mysteriously like any random dentist's office, right down to the annoying light that hovers over your head. That is, right up until they had to "hook me up." Now, I've never had any form of surgery before, so this whole "let's attach her in as many ways as possible to one machine" thing was a new experience. They hook me up, and once again I'm left to sit and amuse myself. (What do I find amusing here? Watching my heart rate increase and decrease at my will. I frightened one poor nurse that way. It was fun.)
Then, they hook me up to the IV, a.k.a. the drugs that will knock me out for the duration.
"You'll start to feel sleepy," Dr. M. tells me.
Okay. So I sit some more ... but no sleepy feeling for a minute or so.
A nurse asks me if I'm starting to feel sleepy, and I answer honestly. No. (I leave out the part where I freak out and run away at the prospect of feeling every bit of the surgery).
She looks worried for a moment, and then everything goes black.
No sleepy feeling. Just thunk, and I'm out.
The next thing I know, I'm waking up in a different room, one I've never seen before, between two other unfortunate souls, my head wrapped in ice. You want to horrifically disorient someone? That's the way to do it.
Apparently, I hadn't wanted to wake up all that badly. Anybody who knows my sleeping "habits" over the last couple of months might understand why I refused to wake up. That was the best sleep I've had since physics first semester last year.
But finally, the whole ordeal is almost over. They unhook me from everything and, with some difficulty, get me into a wheelchair (I'm still puzzling over how they got me to the recovery room in the first place, being that I was rather unconscious right then), and wheel me out to the van and my mother. Some other stuff happened in between there, but I really don't remember a single bit of it. I was conscious, sure, but those drugs were, well, pretty awesome.
I survived yesterday with the help of pain relievers, and I woke up today rather swollen and sore. I resemble a chipmunk now (or Kellie doing her Chubbs joke), and it's annoying me that I can't eat whatever I want to. Other than that, things could be much worse.
But now I have to go to ice my head again. Have a great week, everybody.
Reality? That's where the pizza delivery guy comes from!
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