Belligerently Yours, Uncooperative

Sans wisdom teeth, I return! I am currently experiencing just a mild, dull ache in the sites that formerly housed those pesky “third molars,” but that’s not bad. I’ve been faithfully following my doctor’s instructions to alternate between one vicodin, and then two to four ibuprofen two hours after that, and then another vicodin two hours after that, and so forth. And I’ve faithfully used ice on each side of my mouth for 15 minutes at a time, then 30 minutes without ice, and repeat.

And Mums made me devils food chocolate pudding (oh, so yummy), and got me an Arby’s Jamocha shake (my favorite), and Dad got me a chocolate shake from the local drive-in. For dinner, Mums made me a “Sherbet Malt” (raspberry sherbert well-blended with Diet Sprite Zero–really, really tasty) and had some of Grandma’s homemade, super-smooth applesauce on hand. Hey, if I gotta have my teeth removed, these are the kind of bonuses that make it bearable!

Perhaps you’re wondering why the words “Belligerent” and “Uncooperative” appeared in the title of this post. (Or maybe you’re not, in which case. . . well, darn it, you should pay more attention. I work hard on these posts and their titles, you know.) Let’s take a few steps back in time to Rissa, age 15, having surgery to repair her crushed nasal bones. I woke up too early from the anestheisa–the surgery itself was over, barely, and I was in the recovery room, but I was supposed to have slept for a good hour or more post-surgery before waking up. But I didn’t. And when I came to, there was a big ice pack across my face, gauze in my nose, so I could not see, I could not breathe, I didn’t know where I was, and I hurt like hell, so I panicked. The nurses told me to just go back to sleep, that I shouldn’t be awake yet, but after going into insta-panic, sleep wasn’t really a viable option for me. Anyway, the docs told me at that time that there are folks out there, and perhaps I was one, for whom anesthesia just doesn’t “do its thing” quite as potently as it should, and that the body’s metabolism just burns right through it on an accelerated schedule.

Now, let’s cut to present day, at about 11:00 this morning. My doctor has successfully extracted two of my four wisdom teeth, when I wake up. Yes, while the cutting and such is still occurring, I wake up. And freak out. After all, I can barely see, my tongue and mouth are utterly dry and numb, I can’t swallow decently, and I am IN PAIN. Now, the nurses and doctor swear that because of the numbing medication given directly to the area, there’s no way I could feel anything more than some pressure. But I swear up and down, sideways and over, I felt pain.

So of course, I start crying, because I’m scared and it hurts and I know I’m not supposed to be awake, because the surgery clearly is still in progress. I try to ask them, “Please put me out again” and “I want more anesthesia,” but because my mouth is numb, dry, and propped open, all I can make out are moans and grunts. The doctor just tells me to relax, and keeps working, and at this point, I start going into full-on panic. I’m sobbing, and yelling, “OWWWWWWWW” and I go on to completely hyperventilate, and my legs start shaking and flailing about. The doctor keeps yelling at me, “[M], stop it. [M], you have got to calm down.” Several times, he even said, “[M], you have to stop it–I have other patients. You’re scaring all the other people.” Now, I don’t mean to be unsympathetic to their plight, but I am awake during surgery and can feel it happening, and am frankly too hurt, scared, and panicked to muster enough wherewithall to stop my hissy fit for the sake of other anonymous folks’ emotions. (Sorry, fellow patients.)

The doc had to stop the surgery several times, as my vital signs were going crazy. Because I was in full-on panic mode, I was convulsing and flailing in my legs, and I was hyperventilating and crying, my blood pressure and blood-oxygen levels were all over the place. Every time they’d stop the procedure and tell me, “[M], you must calm down. We can’t do our work until you calm down,” I’d try again to ask to be put back out or given more anesthesia or something, but of course, I was unintelligble, and they would just end up going back to work in my mouth, which just ended up making me freak out all over again, crying and shaking and moaning.

Needless to say, I did make it through the extraction (finally) and got all four teeth outta there. The doctor said I had “tough teeth,” in that the roots were long and well-developed, and that made extraction difficult. One of my upper teeth actually splintered a bit, I guess, and a one-millimeter sized piece may still be floating around in my mouth. It was near the sinus opening, though, so the doc said it would have been more dangerous to aggressively pursue that tiny piece, as he may have inadvertently wound up pushing it into the sinus cavity instead. He told me that he was pretty sure, though, that he got it with his suction device, but there’s no guarantee that happened. Even if he didn’t get it, however, the chances of negative effects from that little piece are very, very slim.

I apologized profusely to the nurses and the doctor for behaving like I did in surgery; I was so embarrassed about my fit. Justified or not, I felt so bad for acting that way. They were all very understanding, assuring me I was far from the worst they’d ever dealt with, and that they know that a patient’s usual emotions, reactions and behaviors are not well-reflected by their actions during or immediately-post surgery. Still, I have a feeling that doctor may not be in any big hurry to work on me again in the near future!

The one nurse explained again today that while it is very rare to have a patient wake up during the procedure, it is not entirely unheard of, and that some people just metabolize the anesthesia at a much quicker-than-expected rate, and it just doesn’t knock them out properly. Lucky me for having that little quirk, eh? If I ever have children, the disappearance of anesthesia during a C-Section could be a real experience! (Note to self: In case of pregnancy, beg for a very, very generous anesthesiologist. . . haha)

The doctor was nice enough to go ahead and prescribe some mild antibiotics for me as well. Since that little flake of tooth may or may not still be floating around in there, and because he knows I’m hoping to get moved back to Valpo and back into the school swing-of-things in the near future, he said that taking those antibiotics as a preventative measure would hopefully ward off any potential post-surgery negatives.

SLIGHTLY RELEVANT SIDENOTE: When I was in recovery today, I told Mums through my gauze-packed mouth that I “was just like Dad” because of my belligerance and uncooperative spirit. When Dad was in The Accident (it was a major enough life event for me, and–knock on wood–the only accident like that in my family in my lifetime, that I capitalize it), when the paramedics arrived to extract him from the car and transport him in the ambulance, he was very combative and swore at them and really gave ‘em hell because he didn’t want them to amputate his legs (which was their initial plan, honestly). Interestingly, in that case, the belligerance paid off–the paramedics figured out how to get him out of his mangled car without taking his legs, and not only was no amputation ever actually required, as most of you know, my Dad’s been walking (with varying but increasing levels of difficulty) since 1986. So, yes, I realize I wasn’t actually “just like Dad,” but we all got a chuckle out of how Dad and I–two people who are usually very friendly and respectful and not at all panicky around doctors–really show a Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde version of ourselves in bad medical situations!

It is about 13 minutes away from Vicodin time. . . I think I’m going to get ready for bed so that if this dose of vicodin makes me sleepy, I can maybe just go to sleep for the night.

Take care, and Check 6.

Labels: all about me