The dictionary tells me that wisdom is all about knowing how best to respond in a specific situation. I honestly can’t see how teeth have anything to do with it (although obviously you get them a little later in life when, it stands to reason, you are wiser).
Anyway - I lost mine today. In the process, ironically, I gained some wisdom about visits to hospital - much to the amusement of my very lovely housemates!
So the story goes like this: I’m booked in to get my teeth out (four and a half of them), I prepare (tell work, make sure I have soup, new bedding and PJs etc.), turn up at the clinic. I thought I was sorted.
Somewhere along the line I had convinced myself that I would turn up, have my teeth taken out (under general anaesthetic), pick up my bag and get a cab home. I turned up at 4pm (as asked) and promptly waited for two hours before going through the questions with a nurse. I don’t smoke, don’t drink a whole lot, no allergies, sorry? do I have an escort home? I need one? Frantic text messages follow… I sign a piece of paper saying I am unfit to touch any equipment more dangerous than a television and start to wonder to myself how appealing cold tomato soup is. The illusion of being prepared is going up in smoke and in its place a sense of my naiveté is growing.
Fortunately my house mate Abi is available to come and pick me up. I’m told I should be out by 9:30 and duly relay this. I carry on reading a book that is slightly too difficult to concentrate on properly and eventually get called in to be put under by the anaesthetist, called Vicki Mitchell (almost a namesake of a good friend of mine). The lights fade and I sleep like a big baby.
It turns out that everything is running a little later than it should be. I wake again at what must be a little while before 9. I feel pretty good all things considered but can hardly talk due to the pieces of gauze in my mouth. I’m moved to a room where chocolate ice cream, raspberry yogurt and water is on hand. It takes me most of a QI to get around to trying them. At this point Lucy turns up expecting me to be sitting on a chair ready to go and finds me lying in bed, two pieces of blue gauze hanging out of my mouth like fangs, unable to pronounce any hard consonants and being attended by a nurse, resembling Mr. T, insisting I pee before I can be released.
My new house mates are angels. Angels that are in hysterics I grant you, but angels none the less. They sit with me while I work through ice cream, yogurt and a few glasses of water to help provide that all important urinary action. Finally I get dressed, go to the loo and am discharged. The missing housemate waits up for me to get back home - by which time it’s gone 11 some 90 minutes later than planned!
There is a something to learn from this story, and by heeding it I will actually grow a little wiser. Hurrah! I’ll try to spend tomorrow working out just what it is.
And anyway - I’ve been given the teeth. So if they really are wise maybe they will know what I will take away from this episode in my life :-)
At least there was no MRSA. or was there? Or Was There? OR WAS THERE? No, probably not.
On the plus side, it would have sounded hilariously rude if you asked some for a bucket. There’s always a silver lining.