Pulling Teeth

I wake up the morning of my oral surgery. It’s still pitch black outside as I boil water for coffee, and let the Trader Joe’s dark roast grounds spill generously into the press pot.

When the kettle clicks off, pour it over the grounds, pausing to stir.

“Am I nervous enough?” I ask myself, somewhat aghast that my stomach is empty of emotion.

“I don’t think I am!”  I pause, and see if I can get nervous about not being nervous enough.

Nothing.

“Shouldn’t I be more nervous?”

A few hours later, Chad’s driving me to the appointment. I made sure to eat a big meal since eating is going to be hard with a raw sewn together mouth.

I’m still not too nervous, and think about it for a moment.

How many times have I felt one way, labeled that feeling wrong, and done my best to strongarm my feelings into something different?

In the waiting room, I choose a spot behind a large flourishing plant. It’s happiness flamboyant and peacock like, greenery shooting out unapologetically in all directions as it basks in the sunlight flooding through the window.

I cower below it, seeking shelter.

“haha! maybe they won’t see me!”

I’m dressed for comfort. Layered up in all black, a tank top, a light long sleeved shirt, a long sweater that hangs below my bum, a scarf, no bra, the works. Cocooning myself in protection.

“Katherine?”

Shit.

Next thing, I’m supine on a chair. Fully reclined. Vulnerable.

My eyes scrunched shut, “this is the worst part,” the surgeon says, as the numbing needle pierces the roof of my mouth, with a pop like the skin of a grape.

“You ok?”

Spoiler alert, it’s not the worst part.

They’ve given me a pair of sunglasses, the kind that chef (is he a chef? Or just an enthusiastic eater of deep fried fare?) Guy Fieri wears on the back of his bleach blonde head, for unknown reasons. Unless I just made that up? He definitely seems like that kind of guy…

Anyway, this is not the worst part either.

The worst part is hearing the surgeon ask for pliers and a wrench. I’m familiar with these tools. The fact that they haven’t renamed them something else is beyond me – “plinkers” and “wrenti,” any other name would be preferable, especially when the patient is forced to be conscious for such an involved extraction.

“Resist my pulling and tugging,” he demands. He’s trying to work out a dental implant I had a few years ago that’s become infected. It’s screwed into my upper jaw, really deep and high up. Just like a regular screw an implant screw is threaded. It can’t simply be pulled down.

The worst part is feeling the bone of my upper jaw give; crumble, as the screw is finally freed.

The worst part is listening to the surgeon coach himself through as he packs and patches it back together, adding the cadaver bone and membrane.

He’s talking to the membrane, referring to it as “she.”

He’s sewing me up.

The tail end of the thread drags across my face. Rests against my nose, making it tickle.

To sneeze now would be catastrophic.

An hour later, they’re done. Chad’s been sitting in the waiting room the whole time.

I say my goodbyes, acting pleasant and nonchalant even though I now know the sensation of my maxilla crumbling, and how it sounds and feels to have the bone scraped.

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It’s always my tendency to wrap pieces up with something upbeat. But honestly, it’s been rough, I’m not going to lie.

I’m prone to optimism, and sometimes I’m not sure if it’s a blessing or curse.

Optimism has enabled me to tolerate less than ideal circumstances, that’s for sure. If there’s a silver lining, you can bet I’ll find it – no matter how tiny a sliver.

But it’s been rough being stationary these past months.

We arrived for the holidays, and stayed for my surgery. Existing in a limbo state where the only thing that traveled were my emotions, appearing with gusto, enthusiasm, high kicks and jazz hands.

Initially, I viewed the screeching halt of the adventure as a chance to practice being “OK” with whatever situation we’re in.

How noble.

But then I grew tired. Yes, there’s merit in accepting what you cannot change. But that acceptance comes with side effects, such as boredom, feelings of being trapped, loss of creativity, listlessness… I guess you can accept something, but you don’t have to like it.

But (cue optimism…) after my post op appointment and X-Rays, if all looks good, we’re free to leave. Free to get out of the Urban Sprawl and get back on the road.

We’ve got a different adventure ahead this time, and I can’t wait!