My husband had dental surgery on Friday. He had all four wisdom teeth pulled. Because two were compacted (read: would have to be shattered and torn from his body), the procedure promised to be less than ticklish. Tim never had any kind of surgery before, and the idea of being awake, without feeling or remembering anything, weirded him out. Plus, I had the same procedure done a year ago, and the whole time he could hear me singing from the lobby a country song I didn't even know I knew the words to. The idea of losing control didn't sit well with Tim. Or maybe it was the whole being asleep, dying, and never knowing what hit him thing--who could say?
I waited in the lobby with Rain while the sound of buzzing instruments made me squirm (poor fellow next to me didn't seem happy, either). I willed that Rain would sit quietly and not make a tense situation worse. She squirmed and grunted, and I was sure she was a second away from a meltdown. But, Rain kept it together, and finally a dental assistant said we could see Tim.
The moment I saw Tim's eyes, I knew he was still somewhere between Disneyland and the moon.
"It was great!" he said, cheeks puffed up with gauze. "I don't remember a thing. How long was I in here?"
"Twenty minutes," I said.
"Wow," he said, still lying on the table. He told me how scared he had been at first, and his heart monitor had gone crazy. "But," he said, "it was great! I don't remember anything .... How long was I in here?"
This sort of thing happened about three times on our way home (a ten-minute drive). He would say logical things at an illogical time. "You should've had me sign papers while I was drugged," he'd say, "because you're a beneficiary" and "Did they give you my teeth? Wait--did I already ask you that?"
I called my brother-in-law to see if he could help me bring Tim in, in case he toppled over. Since he was a few minutes away, I decided to kill time picking up our clothes from the dry cleaner. We pulled up while Tim continued chatting happily about the entire incident. The dry cleaner couldn't find my pants, so I told Tim we'd have to sit a minute while they looked for our stuff.
Tim thumbed his chest. "You should let ME in there," he said. "I'll tell them, 'Where's my pants? What's going on in here, and where's my baby?!?'" I had to laugh. I did let him know Rain was still strapped safely in her car seat, but I don't think he heard.
I finally got Tim home after an incident at the pharmacy (can you say "inappropriate"?) while he seesawed between glee ("I feel great! I don't remember a thing!") and somberness ("Did I cry?"). I put him to bed (he did ask to see his packaged teeth again), and rushed to the store to pick up soft foods while my sister's family kept an eye on Tim & the baby. After, I was prepared to take care of Tim the way he took care of me after my surgery. I didn't lift a finger for days. As soon as Tim woke up a few hours later, he asked if the dentist had given us his teeth. He was excited to see them (again) and began with his first dose of medicine.
No sooner did Tim begin his recovery, then Rain needed a diaper change. Then a feeding. Then a soothing during an unexplained crying bout. Before you can say "pacifier", it was time for her bath and nightly bottle. All the while, I pictured myself in bed a year ago, as Tim cooed, "Do you want macaroni today? What about sweet potatoes? You like sweet potatoes ..." He took excellent care of me, and here I was, running around with my usual routine with Rain. I felt bad, which explains the accident that happened next.
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