Tomorrow morning, I am scheduled to have my wisdom teeth removed. I am not looking forward to it in the slightest, partly due to the inevitable discomfort and partly due to my irrational fear of anaesthetic. But it has to happen – the crafty buggers are growing inwards and are threatening to ruin several years of orthodonic work.
So, tomorrow morning at 7am I will check into the day surgery for my first experience with an operation, conducted by the oral surgeon who possesses all the personality of a housebrick. In a sense, it may be a blessing that there will be an anaesthetist with heavy sedation on standby. Even if it doesn’t work, the surgeon could just talk at me for a minute and I’ll be out like a light.
I have my apprehensions about tomorrow’s proceedings, but my main problem with the whole shebang is the fact that every person I speak to, WITHOUT FAIL, feels the need to tell me all about their own experiences with this common procedure, or those of their partner/child/sibling/parent/neighbour/third-cousin-twice-removed/postman.
Now, the well-meant stories of people who defied the odds and were chomping on honeycomb before they even woke up can be alright. Whilst I don’t expect to be the exception to the rule, it is nice to know that in some cases, it’s not all it is cracked up to be. But there are those who are not as helpful. Some people seem to forget that I am a rather anxious 17-year-old and proceed to launch into gory recounts of anaesthetic mishaps, excruciating side effects and bruising that reached their ankles.
And for these people, I only have one question. What are you trying to do by that? I am not even going to attempt to be diplomatic about this: YOU ARE NOT HELPING. I know the possible byproducts of the surgery, I know what can go wrong, because Dr Brick Wall has explained it to me. What do you really think I am going to get out of your story?
I grovel for sympathy as much as the next person (why do you think I told these people in the first place?), so I understand the subconscious need to make people aware of how much you suffered, but consider your audience. I’ll be over it in a few days – tell me about it then, and it’ll make me feel better about my own experience. Seriously Lady-Selling-Me-Tracksuit-Pants, how would you like it if I said “Ooh, the last time I handled a barcode reader it flipped over and the light blinded me for a month!” ? Is that helpful?
So, I am deliberately filling up my weekend and depriving myself of sleep, in the hope that I will be dead to the world through at least some of my recovery – hoping for the best but preparing for the worst.
If there is one good thing to get out of this – it will be my upcoming week of chocolate custard and DVDs.