Wisdom Teeth and Marriage Vows
As many of you know, I got my wisdom teeth out a couple of weeks ago. I am a firm believer in the school of finding the good in every situation. Throughout this ordeal, I have been reminded of just how amazing my husband is. I first want to say that I already knew he was awesome, but his actions during this particular event really take the cake.
I could barely sleep the night before I got my wisdom teeth out, I was so nervous. I don't actually mind the whole pulling-out-of-the-teeth. It's the shots. I HATE needles. If it's either take an IV or die, you're going to have to give me a minute to think about it. That's how much I hate needles. I will have to go to therapy for this before we get pregnant. My current view on having blood drawn and IVs and epidurals is this: for the past couple thousand years, people have been successfully giving birth without any of these modern "luxuries" and if they can do without, so can I. Baby will just have to tough it out like it's 1853. I know this is ridiculous, which is why I am willing to go to therapy for it, before some of you start judging me for being a bad pre-mother.
Okay, so Thursday morning rolls around. I'm selecting my clothes and I am careful to pick out a shirt that I don't care about in case it gets a little bloody while the oral surgeon is pulling my teeth out of my head. I don't pay attention to what it says and I don't worry about putting on crappy pants because I have faith that this good doctor can keep the splatter to a minimum. So we get in the car and go, me fighting tears the whole 20 minute drive there.
When we pull in the parking lot, and I get out of the car, I already feel like I'm out of body and I haven't even had the drugs yet. Then I look over to the left and I see this teenage boy, who I'm sure has some form of severe retardation. His mom and sibling are helping him to the car and I'm thinking how sweet that is that his sibling is so caring until I realize that this kid is leaving the same office I'm walking into. He's not retarded, he just got his wisdom teeth out. Well, now that I've got something to look forward to...
We walk into the waiting room and I walk up to the window to let them know I'm there. The assistant reads my shirt out loud, "I'd Rather be in the Bahamas" and laughs. I was so nervous when I got dressed, I had no idea what my shirt said until she pointed it out. So I'm sitting in the waiting room, feeling pretty good about myself for making a joke without realizing it when the assistant opens the door, "Jessica? Right this way." Crap.
I start tearing up immediately and let her know, "I'm probably going to cry, but it's no big deal, I just really, really (knot in throat) hate (choking out the final word) needles". "Oh, Honey, you'll be fine! (yeah right) Would you like to use the bathroom first?" So I go into the bathroom, hang out, check out the quotes on the posters, pee, wash my hands, dry them, check to see if my shoes are tied (they don't have laces), wash my hands again, do a few laps around the stall, anything to stall... until I know that they're going to knock on the door, which would mortify me, so I leave this sanctuary that is the bathroom and start what seems like the longest walk of my life.
When I get to the room, it's into the chair right away. As the assistant starts to put the Nitrous Oxide mask over my face, I say, "Wait! I just want to make sure that we're not putting me to sleep." "That's correct." "No IV!" "No IV, just about 16 shots in your mouth." 16?!? Well, it's better to have 16 quick shots that an IV that just stays there, pumping who knows what into my veins. "Okay, you can go ahead." So she puts on the mask, and starts the Nitrous Oxide. "In and out through the nose". Easy enough.
In and out throgh the nose...I don't really feel anything. In and out through the nose...giggle. In and out through the nose...giggle some more. In and out through the nose...I can't believe this is legal. giggle. In and out through the nose...I wonder if the doctor does this for fun on the weekends. giggle some more. Finally, I'm just staring at the ceiling and thinking of things that are amusingly funny to me, laughing and then laughing some more because I'm in a room by myself laughing.
Then the doctor comes in, says hello and sits down to get to work. He asks if I want the Nitrous Oxide turned up and I giggle. "Probably not". "Probably not?!? Boy, we aren't real sure here, are we?" "I guess you could." "You guess? That's not very decisive!" "Okay, yes, let's just crank it up while I'm getting the shots." (Which amazingly don't seem as big of a deal to me right now as they did before I started inhaling. But I'm still relieved that I've decided not to get put down, because an IV still seems very much a big deal to me, even in this drug-induced state.)
So he gets ready to administer the shots and I squinch my eyes shut as tight as I possibly can, so tight I'm sure if I held it this way too long, I would pop my eyes back into my skull. From the waist up, I am keeping perfectly still. From the waist down, not so much. My legs have taken on a spirit of their own. I didn't realize I was moving them, but the doctor is giving a play-by-play of the leg movement while he's numbing my mouth. "You have happy feet...She must really like this song...Now she's in the birthing position...Are you skiing now? Oh, back to the birthing position!" Top half: calm, composed, 25-year-old Jessica, Bottom half: Stuart from MadTV.
So we wait again for the local drugs to do their work. This time the assistant stays with me and tries to make small talk, but an eighth of my mouth is already numb so I'm having a hard time answering. Pretty soon, my whole mouth is numb and nothing I'm saying is making sense and I'm positive that the only reason she's still asking questions is for her own amusement. So I stop answering and she stops asking and I start thanking the Good Lord that the worst part is over with. Like I said, I don't even care about having the teeth pulled out. That's a piece of cake compared to the shots. It takes the doctor all of 2 minutes to remove all four teeth and pack my mouth with gauze. I see Daniel walking past the window. Then I see my OBGYN walk past. And giggle.
They've instructed us and given me oxygen and it's time to leave. I'm sure as Daniel and I are walking out to the car (I've insisted on walking un-aided) people are thinking "How sweet that that grown man takes care of his mentally challenged little sister. Their parents must really appreciate it."
On our way home, he's asking yes or no questions, you know cause I can't talk with a numb mouth full of gauze. He reminds me to take a picture of myself. (Austin and Annie wanted to see how big my head was going to be.) I'm feeling good. We're riding along and all of the sudden, I'm not feeling so good. I feel hot and cold and I'm starting to sweat, so I recline the seat and try to hold out until we get home. Daniel asks if I'm okay and I say, to the best of my ability, "Nuh-uh". I remember the assistant at my consultation told me there might be some nausea and vomiting, but I'm thinking surely, he didn't mean on the way home. I want to let you all know that never once, after I was old enough to walk, have I ever thrown up not in a toilet or on the ground somewhere (once). I have always been able to hold out.
****Graphic details following****
I realize at some point that I'm not going to be able to hold out until we get home. I remember that I've recently put a paper towel tube full of plastic bags under my driver's seat and sit up to try to communicate that to Daniel. As soon as I sit up I hurl into my hands, but of course there's too much for my hands to hold, so it splatters on my cd stereo, on my dash, and glove compartment. It's all over my shirt and down my pants leg and on the side of and into my very favorite purse. "It's okay, I pulled over if you need to get out," says Daniel. I look out and see that he's pulled over into the center turning lane of Old Hickory Blvd. There are cars flying past in both directions. I love him for pulling over so quickly, but seriously, I'd rather be soaked in my own vomit than get hit by a car. And since I'm already one of those, I say,"Go home." Of course he can't understand me and I can't motion because I'm holding vomit in my hands, I try again, this time taking the I'm-a-moron-speaking-to-a-foreigner approach, which is to say it slower and louder. "GO HOME!" "Go home? You want to go home?" "Yeh." I nod.
We get home and I say "Howa" which he doesn't understand and I look at the vomit on me and again say "Howa!" which he guesses means "shower" and I confirm. So he turns off the car and runs to the door to turn the shower on for me. But I can't get myself out of my car since I'm holding my own vomit and don't want to get it anywhere else in the car (it's already on the seat and the carpet) and I yell "Hey! I cah geh ow! Geh me ow!" So he runs back to open the door and unbuckle me and dashes in the house to turn on the shower. I shake the excess vomit of my hands once I'm out of the car.
I kick off my shoes on the porch because I don't know if I hit those and I don't want vomit on the carpet. I go directly to the shower and get in fully clothed. Daniel brings me a trash bag to put my dirty clothes in and goes to start cleaning out the car. Once I'm clean and dressed, I start to go outside to clean it up, but Daniel won't let me. I feel bad because it's my vomit and I should be the one to clean it up, but he insists on doing it. I'm sure this is not what he had in mind when he said for better or for worse. I am truly blessed to have such an awesome husband. Daniel cleaned my car so well that you'd never even know that it had been puked in. My purse is a different story. :(