Down in the mouth

Had seven freakin’ hours of fairly intrusive dental surgery last week. This unhappy state of affairs is mostly due to botched root canal work a while back by some complete hack who shall remain both nameless and grateful that I’m not litigious.

watch the video

The surgery itself went well, but bloody hell, I don’t tolerate general anesthesia worth a damn.

It’s been a while since I had any, best part of twenty years, and that can’t have been anything on the same timeframe as this. I came out of the procedure projectile vomiting with a frenzy that’d put Linda Blair to shame, and just couldn’t stop. So the good medical folkery treated me to a cocktail of anti-nausea drugs, both IV’d and inserted in every orifice except my ears - eventually brought this under control enough to switch beds and pass out for a few more hours. But heaven knows the amount of sedative chemicalery that’s been foisted on my poor little hothouse flower of a system. For several days since, I’ve been moping around feeling a dreadful hungover malaise. It reminds me of the aftermath of some of the worst excesses of my twenties, but, most unfairly, without an actual evening worth remembering. The word poisoned comes to mind; it’s like I went on a week-long bender with Charles Bukowski and ended up drinking paint thinner and gasoline in a dumpster. Just fucking dreadful. 

Teamed with a throbbing but hopefully healing mouth, not the most comfortable week I’ve ever had.