Loss of Wisdom, part 2

02.23.06

            Recap:  Wisdom teeth removed, too many pain killers, too little food, Mom ends up sick and Dad comes home from work to take care of kid.  EQV equals Exaggerated Questioning Voice.  With me so far?

            When Dad changed our girl’s diaper he said, “She’s getting a rash.  You’re not giving her orange juice, are you?”

            Umm.  Maybe. 

            “We’re out of apple.  She wanted orange.”  Will I never get any sympathy?  I’m in PAIN.

             “It doesn’t matter if she wants orange.  She’s two. It gives her a rash.  Who’s the Mommy here?”

            I get the Bad Mommy award. 

            When the Little Miss is tucked into bed Daddy goes to the store and comes home with, I swear, an 8 gallon container of apple juice.  I can hardly lift it, much less pour with any accuracy.  But he gets the Good Daddy award.  (Yes, I know there are probably a lot of mommies out there who don’t have heavily involved daddies and you’re thinking, “Suck it up, he actually KNOWS orange juice gives her a rash.”  Okay, he gets the Good Daddy award for that, too).

            Life continues.  I take my pain pills very regularly.  And I have to go back to work. 

            I drop my girl off at Grandma’s.  Grandma asks, “Did she put her own shoes on?”

            “No,” I say.  I have a very clear memory of her screaming while I wrestle her shoes onto her feet.

            Grandma says, “Well they’re on the wrong feet.”

            “That can’t be.”  I bend down to look.  Sure enough.

            Should I even be driving?

            A week after the extraction, running out of the refill of “good” painkillers, I give up.  Must be dry socket.  There’s an over the counter remedy called Canfield’s Dry Socket Treatment.  It’s a pre-filled syringe.

            I expect those of you who have tried this remedy are laughing hysterically. 

            The package says do not use if allergic to cloves or petroleum jelly.  (The musical score of my life apparently doesn’t contain the kind of music with which to offer fair warning).

            I push a little of the gel out of the syringe.  It smells exactly like clove cigarettes

            My daughter is watching.  “What you doing, Mom?” (EQV).

            “I’m fixing my mouth where it hurts.”

            “Fixing your mouth?” (EQV).

            I stick the tip of the syringe into where I think is the hole left behind from removal of the bottom right wisdom tooth.  Push the plunger a little bit.  Wonder if the stuff is getting in there.  Push the plunger a little more.  The stuff wells out of the tooth socket and onto my tongue.

            HOLY FREAKING WHAT THE HECK IS THIS STUFF? – MY MOUTH IS ON FIRE!

            Some gunk goes down my throat while I’m freaking out and that burns, too.

            My eyes water and I need cold water.

            “Need drink, Mom.”  Two year old tugging at my pants, “Drink, drink, drink agua (thanks Dora) Mom, AGUA!”

            She needs a drink of water?  I’m dying here.  I have clove oil acid in my mouth and throat.  I hand her the glass and catch water from the tap in my hands.  Rinse, spit. Swallow.  It still burns.

            I have to put this stuff in the other side.  I try, but it’s a half-hearted effort.

            I go downstairs and my husband says, “How was that for you?”

             “If you lit a clove cigarette,” I say, “and shove the burning tip under your tongue, you might feel a fraction of what I just went through.”

            I can still taste it and it’s making me sick.

            “Have some pizza,” he says.

            The pizza is my first food of the day, (yeah, yeah, I KNOW already) and I hope it gets the horrid taste of cloves out of my mouth.

            It works, sort of, except for a little later when I throw it up.

            Now I give up for real.  I call work and tell them I can’t make my shift in the morning.  I have to see my oral surgeon.

            On the positive side, the Canfield’s Dry Socket Torture Treatment dulled the pain.  I think it’s designed to burn out the nerves completely.  I’ve only taken one pain pill since last night.  That’s progress.

            The moral of the story?  Beware you might lose some wisdom along with your wisdom teeth.  And for goodness sake, if the bottle says take with FOOD, then take with food.  And if the pain after surgery is killing you, go back to the doctor even if it’s not convenient.  And finally, beware of Canfield—he’s a sadist.

 

Postscript: the oral surgeon packed in dressing strips soaked with … can you guess?  Clove oil.  I’m pain free, but I’ll be tasting cloves well into next week.  Sometimes you win.  Sometimes not so much.

 

To read Loss of Wisdom, part 2 in the Reader Weekly archives click below ...

http://www.readerweekly.us/2006/359/Sheri_Johnson.html