It was a week ago today I went in to have my wisdom teeth removed.

Months before the operation, I was scared.  Days before the operation, I was very scared.  Hours before the operation, I thought I was going to die.

But I came through it all right.

Well, sort of.

Actually, it really sucked.

I highly don’t recommend having oral surgery if it’s avoidable.

However, a week into the process, I must admit I’m feeling better.  I even forget to take my medicine on a regular basis, because the pain has given way to a dull annoyance.  My jaw is still quite tense, but I’ve worked my way up to opening it two fingers’ width—that’s just enough space for a bean and cheese burrito!  No, not a Taco Bell™ bean and cheese burrito {R.I.P. Taco Bell™}, but a homemade concoction that tastes almost exactly like it.

I’ve overcome my dread of the big, bad oral syringe, because there’s no way I’m going to be stupid and get dry socket if I can help it—I’m following all the rules precisely.  I rinse with the nasty salt water concoction (1 cup warm water + 1 teaspoon salt) after every meal.  I am doing my darndest.

Essentially, I’m conforming.  In every way.  To The Man.  I hate The Man.  The Man deemed it necessary for me to dehydrate myself before surgery, thus making my veins all shriveled up and impossible to needle.

The Man also decided that sucking on a straw would be forbidden, but, when all I can do is swallow pureed food, a straw would really help to keep particles out of my poor, hollow sockets.

I suspected I’d miss using straws—my suspicion was right.  I’m a regular Sherlock Holmes.

It’s ironic, the way life works out.

I’m supposed to rinse, but not spit—The Man obviously hasn’t ever experienced that uncomfortable feeling of warm salt water dribbling down his drugged-up chin, which is a direct result of spittle prohibition.

I hate The Man.  Or at least my oral surgeon.

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