FrancisPage

Lovely, Wonderful Thoughts

On February 11, 2005, Chris Francis had his three remaining wisdom teeth removed via oral surgery. The operation required general anethesia and copious gum-numbing. The following is adapted from his personal journal.

I kept having fears about being put under as I lay in bed last night and early this morning. I could barely remember anything about the last time I was put under for an extraction. The anesthetic IV kicked in lightning fast -- about 30 seconds. The next thing I knew, I lie in some side room groggy with a mouth full of gauze.

The appointment was for 11am. I went there with Mom and we only sat in the room for 5 minutes before they called me back. I gave her my Patriot Salute -- two fingers above the eyebrow, a symbol of confidence and whatever bravery I possessed -- and went through the door.

I was led into the room with the chair and given a form to initial and sign, indicating I knew the risks of general anesthetic including… death. I read every word of it. I shuddered at signing my own death certificate.

A kindly assistant stuck heart monitors on my chest, under my grey t-shirt. A blood pressure cuff went on and I soon saw in front of me a visual representation of my anxiety. Beep. Beep. Beep. My blood pressure was normal, if that was any consolation. An IV stood at attention, waiting for duty. I glanced at my right wrist.

I prayed to God. Please get me through this.

Another technician and Dr. Denbrock soon showed up and my heart started to race a little again. He put a strap on my right arm and gave me something to squeeze.

"Just a little pinch," the technician said.

"Lovely, wonderful thoughts," I whispered, recalling that line from Peter Pan. I started sweating.

Another technician added an oxygen tube to my nose. "Nice deep breaths through your nose," he said.

"How long will this take?" I asked.

"About 5 minutes," Dr. Denbrock replied. "We're going to go nice and easy." No first-round knockout this time.

I closed my eyes. My arms dissolved into sleep. Lightness infected my head. I wanted to sleep. But my heart was racing. I sat in that chair and sweat was still pouring off my arms. The beeping sped up.

Some part of me, somewhere in my subconcious, thought I had been given a lethal injection. I flashed back to that critical scene in Million Dollar Baby, where (spoiler alert! spoiler alert!) Clint Eastwood says, "I'm going to disconnect your breathing tube, and you're going to go to sleep, and then I'm going to give you an injection, and you're going to stay alseep."

The assistants caught on. The kindly nurse added a cold cloth to my forehead and a blanket over my body.

"Nice, deep breaths through your nose," the oxygen assistant repeated.

"We're going to take good care of you."

Lovely, wonderful thoughts, I thought again. I worked on my breathing.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled through the gas and the dripping IV. "It's been a long time since I've done this."

It has been more than a decade since I've gone under the knife. Who knew what complications awaited?

"You're doing just fine," the assistant repeated.

Lovely, wonderful thoughts. I hoped I would dream through this.

"Now that some of your color's back," Dr. Denbrock advised, "I'm gonna start the medicine."

Not long after, I was out.

And the operation proceeded according to plan, although getting my right lower tooth took a little longer because it split apart when they pulled it. They had to x-ray me to make sure they'd gotten in all.

I know I dreamed. And my dreams don't make sense because they're my mind doodling on the blank paper of my subconcious. The only thing I remember clearly after the last moments on anesthetic and oxygen is sitting in another room with another chair. Cotton filled my mouth. The IV drip was gone, replaced with a bandage on my arm.

Mom said they wheeled me out in a wheelchair and I gave her another Patriot Salute just before they took the x-ray, but I don't remember it.

The operation was done. Time to go home.

I'm not really in any pain, and I don't even look swollen. I've had to keep changing bloody gause in my mouth every couple of hours or so. I'm also getting reacquainted with the joys of Vicodin.

Lovely, wonderful thoughts.