I pull up to the house and he's already standing outside the garage door. His body language shouts that he's all ready to go.
Doofus.
I'm 15 minutes early. We were explicit about our plans for me to leave at 8 a.m.
He remembers nothing.
He always forgets everything whenever his toddler-like impatience kicks in.
I should thank him for offering to drive me, but gratitude is swallowed by annoyance. He's not driving me to my appointment out of the goodness of his heart. He needs to get to work and work happens to be right next to the dentist's office. If he drives me in, he doesn't have to pay for parking. It's more efficient this way. Instead of comfort and understanding from my loving wife, I get a gape-mouthed stare as I brush past him into the garage.
"I'm ready to go," he offers lamely.
"Congratulations." I can barely push the words out between my clenched teeth. "We're going to leave at eight and I need to take my Valium first."
I walk through the kitchen door with a twitching bundle of tension lodged in my gut.
He follows me in and sits at the dining table.
His daughter and I have been married for almost nine years now. He was gracious and generous enough to let us live in his house for eight months when were a young couple just starting out. I know how to find much of what I need in his wife's kitchen.
I don't feel like talking.
Surgery sucks and general anesthesia has risks. No matter how routine, sometimes people just die. Having your wisdom teeth extracted is routine as well, but sometimes nerves are severed, sinuses punctured.
So I'm not in the mood for idle chit-chat.
I can feel his eyes on me.
I need warm water for the Valium.
I pull a Corelle bowl from its cupboard. I pour in some filtered water from the container in the refrigerator. I'm waiting for the question.
I turn to open the microwave and finally the question comes.
"What are you doing?"
"I need warm water for my pill."
"Just use the tap."
"I don't want to drink warm tap water."
"Why use a bowl?"
"Because I want more water than I can heat up in a mug and I don't want to heat the water in your plastic tumblers."
As I'm opening the microwave door, I expect to hear something about "Use 'memory one'." or "Don't forget the 'minute' button." or something else equally elementary, useless, and infuriating.
I close the door and stab the buttons.
"How long did you do it for?"
"45 seconds."
"That should be good enough."
"Yes, it should."
The oven beeps and I tongue the pill. The tepid water scours my taste buds and splashes into my empty stomach.
I hand him the keys. My car is still warm. I explain the workings of the wiper switch to clear the drizzle on this gray, cold morning.
He changes lanes without signaling. I sink down in my seat with a strange embarrassment. This is my car. I don't drive like this. I want my Valium to kick in.
And then it does.
I can talk now. He knows the way better than I do. He's worked in the area for 30 years.
We claim a wonderful, early-morning parking space in the lot outside the building.
With a few short words, we go our separate ways.
I trade pleasantries with the security guard.
I recognize everything from my initial consultation.
The office staff check me in. I read an informative sheet outlining all the things that can go wrong this morning. Nothing surprises me.
But the nurse takes me back immediately. This is a surprise.
I'm lying in a reclined chair. The oxygen tubes go in my nose. A darkened plastic shield is strapped over my eyes. I hear something about "OSHA requirements."
The nurses are perfect, professional and gentle. A blood-pressure cuff squeezes my calf. My blood pressure is surprisingly low.
A nurse stretches a tourniquet on my left arm. I'm glad I wore a short-sleeved T-shirt this morning.
The nurse probes and smacks, looking for a vein. I apologize for all my subcutaneous fat. She chuckles.
She gives up and tries my right arm. She announces that she's found a good one, a deep one, but a good one. Something cold sprays on the inside of my elbow. The nurse names the compound cooling my arm, but it doesn't stick in my brain. With a single pinch, the IV is in.
I concentrate on my breathing. I say "I feel a little woozy."
Somebody's doing something rough and post-op in my mouth. I'm giddy. I can't open by eyes, but I'm consumed by euphoria. I'm not dead.
When the hands and equipment are out of my mouth, I announce "That was fun."
At least two people in the room laugh.
The nurse who poked me with the IV helps me out of the chair. My legs aren't working quite the way they should.
Another chair greets me after a short walk to the recovery area. I get a blanket. I haven't felt this exhausted and comfortable since I did mushrooms 15 years ago.
The guy in the chair across from me starts to snore. The staff bug him to keep him from sleeping. I'm amused.
It's only 10:30. I expected that I'd be ready for pick-up at 2:00. Oops.
My wife rearranges her life as I read through the magazines some thoughtful person plopped on my stomach.
It's almost noon. The drugs are wearing off. My euphoria is attenuating.
I'm moved into a consultation area and I hear my son.
I feel something on my arm and I look down to see my daughter stretching up to touch me.
The nurse lectures my wife on post-op care.
I plop into a wheelchair and I'm in the car. I can't feel my chin or tongue. I'm disoriented, but happy.
I'm happy that I'm with my wife, my son, and my daughter.
I'm happy that I don't have to see my father-in-law right now.
Pakeha