The story of my wisdom teeth.

I hate surgery. To clarify, surgery is a thing I hate. Like, a lot. I'd been dreading going to get my wisdom teeth out for many a day before I came home, and indeed, it was hard to sleep the night before surgery (Thursday).

Friday morning I woke up and got myself ready to go, when Mom got a call from grandma. I was just going upstairs to put on facial stuff, so I did that but when I came back down, Mom was upset. "Honey, Grandpa Brown passed away this morning," she said. I gave her a hug. "Is it okay if Rob takes you to the dentist's office?" Of course it was. So we got in the car, now late for the appointment, and went to Oneida, leaving Mom to deal with the grandpa arrangements. I didn't have another time to get my wisdom teeth out, so when I explained why we were late, and was posed the question "Are you sure you still want to do this today?" my response was "Just put me under. I'll be fine."

The preparation for surgery made me feel like a cyborg. There was an oxygen thing that went over my nose, a blood pressure cuff on my arm with two sensors with tubes that went to my ankles, straps for my stomach, arms and legs, an IV in my left hand, and a thing that held my mouth open. It was pretty awesome. I may or may not have told them I felt a part of the machine. They laughed.

The pain is definitely not what I thought it would be, and instead of something like Codeine which would make me loopy (and probably ill) I just got extra strength ibuprofen which has held off the pain and I actually feel fine. Because of the funeral arrangements, I won't be back in Boston until Tuesday evening, to go to class on Wednesday.

The point is, now I have the wisdom teeth trump story. When people tell me about how bloody they were and about how long they were stuck in bed, I can reply:
"Oh yeah? Well when I got my wisdom teeth out, my grandpa died!"