Truly.
Friday, first thing in the morning, I had my wisdom teeth out. The bottom two were sideways, and all four were impacted. The surgery went fine, all I remember was they were having a hard time finding a vein for the IV, they gave me nitrous, and once the IV was in everything went wonky. Right before I passed out, I remember thinking I was never going to pass out, that I would just feel dizzy and sleepy forever. Next thing I know, I'm waking up with gauze in my mouth and being herded out the door.
That afternoon, I looked like Bethenny Frankel. The next day, my face was unrecognizable from the cheekbones down. I blew up. The swelling was worse the next day, if such a thing could be possible. I cried. Spagett was scared of me. It was horrible. The Vicodin I'd been prescribed didn't seem to take a dent out of the pain I was in. I can't say it enough: it was horrible.
While the swelling has gone down, my face is all bruised along my jaw, and I still can't open my mouth very far. It isn't pain stopping me; I literally cannot open my mouth. While I understand this is normal and will resolve in time, it fucking sucks trying to eat.
But. That's not even the worst of it.
Yesterday Knut disappeared. I spent all day today walking around with Spagett on my back, or biking with Spagett in his seat, putting up flyers with Sid and looking for that bitch cat. And she is nowhere to be found. We lost Knut.
Holy shit, we lost Knut. We may never get her back. I don't even want to talk about it anymore right now, just thinking about it, just typing the words, leaves me with this hollow, sick feeling. Even though I know, I fucking know anything could have happened to her, I can't even bring myself to consider that she might be dead. Eaten or otherwise killed by another animal. It simply is not a thought I am willing to entertain. Even though I know she is old, missing teeth, not as spry or able to defend herself, following that train of thought to it's conclusion is unfathomable.
I have to believe she'll come back. That someone will find her, someone will pick her up and call me. Or that I'll open the door one morning and there she'll be on the porch, having gotten tired of her adventures and found her way home. This has to happen, because if it doesn't, the implications are more than I can take.
Friday, first thing in the morning, I had my wisdom teeth out. The bottom two were sideways, and all four were impacted. The surgery went fine, all I remember was they were having a hard time finding a vein for the IV, they gave me nitrous, and once the IV was in everything went wonky. Right before I passed out, I remember thinking I was never going to pass out, that I would just feel dizzy and sleepy forever. Next thing I know, I'm waking up with gauze in my mouth and being herded out the door.
That afternoon, I looked like Bethenny Frankel. The next day, my face was unrecognizable from the cheekbones down. I blew up. The swelling was worse the next day, if such a thing could be possible. I cried. Spagett was scared of me. It was horrible. The Vicodin I'd been prescribed didn't seem to take a dent out of the pain I was in. I can't say it enough: it was horrible.
While the swelling has gone down, my face is all bruised along my jaw, and I still can't open my mouth very far. It isn't pain stopping me; I literally cannot open my mouth. While I understand this is normal and will resolve in time, it fucking sucks trying to eat.
But. That's not even the worst of it.
Yesterday Knut disappeared. I spent all day today walking around with Spagett on my back, or biking with Spagett in his seat, putting up flyers with Sid and looking for that bitch cat. And she is nowhere to be found. We lost Knut.
Holy shit, we lost Knut. We may never get her back. I don't even want to talk about it anymore right now, just thinking about it, just typing the words, leaves me with this hollow, sick feeling. Even though I know, I fucking know anything could have happened to her, I can't even bring myself to consider that she might be dead. Eaten or otherwise killed by another animal. It simply is not a thought I am willing to entertain. Even though I know she is old, missing teeth, not as spry or able to defend herself, following that train of thought to it's conclusion is unfathomable.
I have to believe she'll come back. That someone will find her, someone will pick her up and call me. Or that I'll open the door one morning and there she'll be on the porch, having gotten tired of her adventures and found her way home. This has to happen, because if it doesn't, the implications are more than I can take.
No comments:
Post a Comment