Wisdom teeth

 

Don’t do drugs, we say.

Stay away from strange men who would hurt you, we say.

Don’t crack your bones in pieces, we say.

And then one day we send them into a little room with a strange man so he can shoot them up with drugs, cut them open, and wrench out some wisdom teeth, while we pay the nice lady at the desk hundreds of dollars to have it done.

It seems ironic that we call them wisdom teeth.

I think Jeddy’s surprised at the amount of numbness and blood.  

I’m surprised at how traumatized *I* feel.  Fear of my child not waking up well from anesthesia, combined with the thought of an IV, combined with the surgeon calmly describing the rare possibility of floating bone fragments in the “sockets” [*shudder*] set me up for discomfort, and then taking sole charge of a child who’s my child but not really acting like my child; not to mention a child who is bigger than me and has a history of fainting and throwing up at times when he HASN’T been drugged; who is also drooling blood and tied up like Jacob Marley

 

and isn’t making sense because he can’t move his face and his mouth is stuffed with gauze (and also see above re: drugged), but I’m pretty sure he’s telling me he can’t see out of one eye and asking if he needs to put an ice pack on it, and I’m wondering how do you kindly explain to someone that the reason he can’t see out of it is because he has one eye closed, and an ice pack probably won’t help with that, but it’ll all sort itself out soon; all made for an uncomfortable drive home.

He’s ok though.  He’s even figured out how to open both eyes at once.  And I’ll probably get over it someday.