I Coulda Used the Wisdom in Those Teeth

I don't know what's worse, being chained to the couch taking Vicodin and Extra Strength Tylenol and eating applesauce, or being well enough to go back to work.

On Friday, the dentist lay me down and peered into my mouth. He had a bad comb-over and, Nikki told me later but I didn't notice at the time, what apparently appeared to be half his jaw missing. "What do you do for a living?" he said,

"I'm an editor," I said.

"Really, okay. What newspaper, what magazine?"

"Film," I said, his flashlight in my mouth.

He blinked twice. "The talkies, I guess, huh?"

"Um," I said. "Yeah."

Later they lay me on a slab, strapped me down and knocked me out. Next thing I knew I was waking up. I was still drugged out of my mind, but I was determined to remain lucid. I ran facts through my head as quickly as I could. I stumbled and was guided into a wheelchair, into which I slumped heavily. I could think, but couldn't speak.

They gave me pills. Wheeled me out to the car. I remembered what they'd told me before the surgery.

The receptionist/assistant rattled off her list from rote memory. "No typing with the right hand, use a pen to tap the keys," she said.

I cocked my head. "Because of the IV?"

She nodded. "No heavy lifting, no milk on the first day, no mouthwash for a few weeks, no brushing today, when you do brush, it's down on the top, up on the bottom, no up and down motion for a while."

Who thinks of this stuff?

"You might not go back to work until Wednesday," the dentist told me.

So on the long ride home I called my boss. The same boss that had regaled me with tales of his own wisdom teeth extraction, when they didn't use the IV sedation, when he heard every snapping tendon and tearing ligament.

"Stu," I said, my mouth stuffed with bloody gauze.

"How are you feeling?"

"Just wanted to give you a head's-up," I said. "Dentist said I might be out 'til Wednesday."

"Your dentist is on crack," he said. "I've had that done. You rest up, and call me Monday morning."

The weekend was spent lying on the couch, icing my face, timing the pills so I took enough to dull the pain but not enough to give me liver damage. Gargle with warm salt water every two hours. Ice fifteen minutes on, fifteen minutes off. The sheet they sent with me said "Spaghettios [sic] are tasty and nourishing." Who thinks of this stuff?

For the past three nights, my mouth has waked me at four AM to take more Vicodin. I really don't want to be on these drugs. I've been taking Tylenol as much as possible to avoid the Vicodin. Last night I tried to go to sleep without taking anything. That was a mistake.

When the drugs are active, I feel fine. A little sore, maybe. The Vicodin doesn't make me spacey. A little run down, of course. But I'm functional. Lethargic yet lucid.

But I called my boss this morning. "Stu," I said.

"How's it going?"

"I don't think I'm going to make it in tonight."

He called me a pussy. I fumbled for an explanation. "I don't think I should be driving on this Vicodin, anyway."

"You're still on Vicodin? After three days?"

"I've been trying to take Tylenol, but it's only so strong."

He sighed. "Fine. But if you have to stay out after tomorrow, I need a doctor's note."

"Sure," I said as he hung up.

Now, if ever I had a valid excuse to stay home from work, I think this is it. But I know we're a little short-handed at the moment. My two night shift co-workers are a new guy still learning the ropes and a guy who's totally burned out, who's staggered in like a zombie for the last two weeks. So I know why they want me back, and I feel a little guilty about staying home.

But dammit, I don't feel good. My own personal health is more important than whether it means the day shift has to stay a few hours overtime tonight. And although I physically could sit in traffic for an hour and fumble through the night, I don't want to.

And I shouldn't want to. I'm in the right here. Then why do I feel like I'm just rationalizing? Why do I have to sit here and convince myself?