My Lost Day

(NO! This is NOT the periodontist's office -- it's the tent we meet in at Camp Bullis (see prior post) -- it wouldn't fit into the other post -- I'm new at this pix/post stuff and don't know what to put where -- sheesh!)

3 September 2010

Now just where did I put September 2nd?!? I’m positive I had it right here ahead of me! Hm-m-m-m-m – I’ve missed a perfectly good 22-hour period of my life and I have no recollection of it. At. All.

I remember getting up yesterday ayem, getting dressed in navy pants and a reddish blouse and Alan driving me at ten ayem to the periodontist. I walked in and said hello to Samantha, the receptionist, she led me to a room with a dental chair in it, I sat down, she covered me with a blanket, I shook hands with Dr. Lorenzana, he said hello back and bam! I felt a whale-of-a-hard pain (don’t you just love it when they all say, “just a little pinch here” Pinch?!?) in my right wrist. (I never saw a syringe, I wonder if they use stun guns now?) The next thing I was aware of was waking up on my sofa this morning at six ayem.

Alan says the day went like this:

I had my right front tooth removed, some bone grafts, some skin grafts, and the bottom half of that tooth cut off. Dr L told Alan the tooth was rotten and ugly. He stuck the top half back into my gum and wrapped my 12 front teeth in a clear plastic brace with a bunch of black ugly sutures sticking out the sides. (Those sutures are rubbing my tongue raw as I type.)

The procedure took two hours. (I suggested Alan read “No Apology” – Mitt Romney’s new book -- which I just LOVE while he waited. He did. Now he loves it too.)

Alan says when it was over, they wheeled me out of the building in a wheelchair, lugged me into the car, we stopped for milk shakes at Whattaburger, he drove me home, lugged me into the house, we talked for awhile and then I went to bed. I have evidence of the milkshake because it’s smeared all down the front of my reddish blouse – even on the shoulder. It was on the floor in a wad by my nightstand this morning. If I didn’t know better I’d say I had a night of wanton . . . well . . . wanton milkshakes!

How did I get to the sofa? I’m clueless. The last recollection I have is of that big bam in my wrist yesterday morning. Sheesh!

I evidentially asked Alan a dozen times how much the procedure cost. I hope I didn’t ask in front of anyone in the office. I keep thinking about the $125 I paid in the mid-70s to have the space in my two front teeth brought together in the first place. Vanity, thy name is woman.

I’ve been told I have to return in two weeks to have the brace removed and a fake (“flipper”) tooth put in. Meanwhile I’ve gobbled down all the percocet and amoxicillin I was given. I ate the casserole Alan made for dinner tonite with a spoon so I wouldn’t jam my lips with a fork.

I’m kinda out of it.

Twenty-four hours from now I’ll probably look at this journal entry and have no recall of having written it.

Sigh . . . I’m truly hopeless . . .