Two and a half weeks worth of shit...

I got chosen for two and a half weeks of hell (and counting!)

It started out alright, but the series of events are absolutely devastating. I will list this as the events occur, because if I don't, it's just a wall of text, and that's not interesting. I actually want my friends to read how shitty my life has been, because it's validating. If they don't, it's like a tree fell in the woods, and nobody heard it pop open a 1/2 gallon of Blue Bell Cookies and Cream, and drown it's woody sorrows in frozen cream and sugar. BUT NO, I COULDN'T EVEN DROWN MY SORROWS IN COOKIES AND CREAM, BECAUSE ICE CREAM HAS BETRAYED ME AND GIVEN ME HORRIBLE TEETH. If ice cream were my significant other, I'd commit domestic violence on it.

That said,


Dentist appointment.

I went to get a cavity drilled and filled. I had to, because way back in July, the dentist looked at my mouth via x-rays, left the room for about 20 minutes, and returned to tell me how my mouth resembles that of a hobo. Four cavities, two dead teeth, and one potential root canal. That was in July. Since then, the universe didn't want me back at the dentist, it wanted me asleep and depressed on the couch eating all the things I shouldn't for a girl who has two dead teeth, four cavities, and one root canal.

So I went in for a cavity to be filled on the 18th of November (finally). The dentist took one look in my gapping hole, and determined that the broken teeth needed to come out first. I was not as visibly upset as I should have been, but she made a stellar argument which consisted of her being a dentist, and me being a know nothing, dirty-mouthed patient. Dentist 1, dirty-mouthed patient 0.

So she sticks me 19 times in the mouth for good measure (I prepared myself mentally for one stick...not for the other 18, unfortunately) pulls out this medieval torture device that resembled a flathead screwdriver with a scoop, and digs in. The first tooth refuses to die by leaving a sliver of sharp white terror in my gums, while the other tooth is holding onto my jaw for dear goddamn life. She's scrapping and pushing and digging to raise this monstrosity that is a molar tooth. She's setting her foot against my seat, and another firmly on the ground, shoulders squared, arms up, and teeth gritted. All the while I can't feel a damn thing, because I've been poked 19 times in the mouth with enough Novocaine to dull the senses of a bucking stallion in heat, so my reaction is to laugh giddily, because my molar is giving this woman what for. I have strong teeth. They have muscles.

Either way, She-ra tooth can't hold out for much longer, and becomes dislodged. I bite some gauze, and I'm out of there. Hallelujiah!




Lack of Pain Medication.

So by that night, they completely forget to send my pain meds, and by the time I realize this, it's after 5pm. D: I spent the entire night that evening failing at food, and curled up on my bed trying to sleep. The next day I spent the last half in a euphoric coma, because codeine makes people pretty and uninteresting things very interesting, and by that evening I can't eat food anymore. What? Why? I make no correlation, because I'm too euphoric to realize that my body doesn't like codeine NEARLY as much /I/ discovered I like codeine. Balls.



Codeine poisoning.

By Sunday night, I'm trying to choke down spoonfuls of applesauce. My boyfriend is so concerned and worried for my safety, that he's spending all of his free time watching a movie filled with enough gore to make Saw look like a Disney film (ever seen The Cube?). Of course he doesn't realize that this may not react well with my stomach. Neither does the smell of a microwaved burrito. My computer is right next to the kitchen, by the way. So here I am researching the effects of codeine poisoning, trying to keep applesauce in my stomach, and he's making food and watching gore. He's a keeper.

So I puke. Drastically. If I had long hair, the boyfriend would have been holding it back for me, while I coughed up watery applesauce and shame into porcelain god of poop. Good news, I'm well enough to eat, and I didn't poop my pants in the process. Climax down, story done, The End, yes?



Dry Socket.

No. I realized twenty minutes later that my tooth (or lack thereof) was still in egregious pain. I'd done some research, and realized that I'd contracted a dental complication only seen by 3% of extractions. Dry Socket. So imagine finally being able to eat, but you can't, because air and food in your mouth causes the type of pain previously reserved solely for the 8th layer of Hell. That's where people with Dry Socket go when they're still alive. It looks like your house strangely enough, and negates the effects of all pain medications, including the one that just made you pray to a god you didn't know you worshiped. Do you know how to stop this agony? Pack it yourself with small pieces of gauze coated in clove oil. Have you ever had the joy of sticking material directly onto your exposed jawbone coated in a substance that burns like burning? I must have owned slaves in a past life of something to endure this type of torture. I'm pretty convinced of that.

So I get it packed and secured, and carefully learn how to place food in my mouth. Not enough for survival, but just enough to decide that sustenance isn't worth it. I get back to the dentist on Tuesday, and the visit is less savory.




Too much Novocaine.

For one, the 11 jabs I received with her needle felt worse, because of the exposed nerves. For two, she didn't let it sit long enough. For three, she didn't even care that I COULD STILL FEEL HER SCRAPING AT MY JAWBONE AND GUMS OMG THE NOVOCAINE ISN'T WORKING, BUT ONE SIDE OF MY FACE IS COMPLETELY NUMB HOW CAN THIS BE? Literally, she squirted pure Novocaine /on/ my open socket, which leaked into my mouth, and numbed one half of my lips. Try talking like that.

Okay, so Tuesday offers treatment and relaxation. I still can't eat much, though I try. Thanksgiving is wonderful, but I'm popping Advil like Smarties just so I can eat delicious Mexican food.




Forced Abstinence.

By Friday I'm lulled into a false sense of security. I can eat better, but I'm still worried about my socket getting infected, and my tooth that needs a pulpotomy (a sissy root canal that costs enough to buy two good XBox games, if you're wondering). I start taking antibiotics. By this time, I'm sick of taking pills, and now that I'm on antibiotics I can no longer have sex. Sex was my only means of mentally escaping my pain for at least a couple of hours, because even if my boyfriend's compassion is an operational mode only activated by manual control, he's as good in bed as he is at D&D. That means he's at max level for all abilities, but not horribly overpowered (anymore than two hours, and I lose focus/interest). You ask, "Why not use condoms?" Because two nights ago we gave in and tried. I now have several bruises because latex is not my friend, and Erin is over it for the next two weeks. You know you should throw in the towel when you're sitting in the bathroom contemplating the pros and cons of anal. TMI?

False. Sense. Of. Fooding. Security.

Saturday night/Sunday morning I take three Advil PM wile learning how to play Magic: the Gathering (yes, and I am quite proud of my black deck), when I can't finish a bowl of ramen. My stomach is gurgling in that strange way that says some shit is about to go down, and I'm extremely nauseous. It's like somebody spiked my food with codeine, and I didn't even get to be high. In times like these you really need to be high, because so much shit has gone down, that being high is your only mode of transportation for life, because all the other roads are blocked with ten car pile ups, exploding trucks full of gasoline, and rubber neck traffic. Living in Thomasville, GA is a ten car pile up with all fatalities, and no survivors.

The next day, I make the attempt to eat again. DENIED. I'm not sick. I'm only sick /when I eat/. So after living without the proper amount of sustenance for the last week, being unable to sleep, because I'm paranoid about losing more teeth and having droopy jaw, and getting sick for various reasons, I now have lost the ability to eat without sickness.

So fuck food. Fuck you food. We used to have something good, but at that time I didn't even know who food was anymore. First ice cream, and now food. All of them were walking out of my life without any closure, and I was left to pick up the pieces. Sleep, I expected this type of behavior from, but food and I go back like jerry curls and Cadillacs. I'm fully ready to swing from my shower bar, when my roommate breaks the bad news. I might have an ulcer, and ulcers are anorexic by nature. I research it, and apparently the body doesn't like an OD of Ibuprofen. But I couldn't use codeine. So basically my body told me to screw off, and die in a ditch from pain and no nutrition.




Sick Ex-manager.

So once again on a Sunday, I'm staring down a kitchen full of food, and completely unable to make any sudden moves. I lower my head in shame, and go about my daily work. I spend the next three days under the assumption that an ulcer has come between me and my delicious tender vittles (and cayenne pepper...;_;!), when my roommate comes home with amazing news.

"You don't have an ulcer. I just puked at work."

No, him being sick isn't the amazing news. Well...me not having an ulcer is, but the next part is the greatest news of all.

"...and I think I gave it to the store manager, because she's now sick. So congrats, your bug made the store manager sick. You made her sick."

Store manager is my ex-manager. That means all of this was not for naught, and the universe gave me a blessing (and my former co-workers a blessing) in disguise. I ruined her week, and they were saved from her shenanigans for a week, and that makes me feel like I've contributed to society in some small way.




Denouement.

So yes, by now I'm eating food left and right, trying to get reacquainted with my former lover as we explore each other in ways we previously took for granted, my mouth has ceased to hurt malignantly, I'm five pounds lighter due to my coerced anorexia, and...I still can't sleep at night due to the upcoming dental appointment in December. Did I mention that I'm a hypochondriac?

*sigh*

If all of this happened due to two extractions, I wonder what type of agony a pulpotomy will cause. Not to mention that I STILL HAVE FOUR CAVITIES SITTING IN MY MOUTH AS WE SPEAK. The dentist office is a sliding scale policy when it comes to payment, and they only do one tooth at a time per visit (so if you have six cavities, kiss two teeth goodbye, because it seems like it takes three weeks just to get seen, ugh.). Luckily for me the head dentist took pity on my hobo mouth, and has arranged to see me by the hour to get things done in groups. But last time I checked, this won't happen until after my pulpotomy, and I have two teeth that are not in good condition. *sigh*

Hopefully I won't be missing an arm by the time my teeth get fixed. Or using a colostomy bag.




P.S.

P.S. - The energies of the universe are fair and just. For playing that grotesque movie, boyfriend caught an ear infection. I doted on him, and got him taken to the ER for meds, and showed him how to be compassionate like a boss. But mostly because I didn't want to ignore his pain, and get bitten in the ass again. I am still on probation in the eyes of the universe.