It was Thursday afternoon when I received the dreadful phone call. I was in class at the time, so the lady left a voicemail: “Good morning, this is Elaine. I am calling from the Center For Oral and Facial Surgery to confirm Jasmine McGill’s appointment for Friday March, 22 at 9 a.m. Just a reminder, do not eat or drink anything 6 hours prior and you must have a driver with you. If you would like you can give us a call back at…”
For weeks after I had discovered that I would undergo the infamous wisdom tooth surgery, people would express their sorrow for me. “Oooo I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s going to be painful.”
“You’re going to be on bedrest.”
That’s all I heard for weeks on end. As the day grew closer and closer, I grew more and more anxious and terrified. I had gotten teeth pulled before, but this, this seemed like a lot more than just having a baby tooth pulled. At least you’re still awake during that. Not this time though. I was going to be knocked out…
The morning of the surgery, I got up, got dressed, brushed my teeth, and said a quick prayer asking God not to let me die during surgery. It was almost 8:30, and I hadn’t heard from my boyfriend since the night before. He was my designated driver for the day. I called him and he was minutes away..
I signed in on the brown rusty-looking clipboard at the front desk. I took my seat in a big brown, floral-patterned chair. I sat there nervously, terrified out of my mind because I had no idea what I was in for.
“Am I going to make it out alive?” I asked myself. “Am I going to be acting like all those people in the videos who laugh uncontrollably and say whatever is on their minds? Please don’t let me say anything stupid or too personal.”
“Miss McGill,” the lady called from the door that connected the surgery rooms and the front lobby.
I got up with a stressed out look on my face. I handed my purse to my boyfriend who had been taking pictures of me since we arrived at the office. He knew I was scared.
The lady walked me into a room where I signed some kind of paperwork. Now that I think about it, I don’t even remember what it was that I signed. I could’ve signed my life away and not have even known because I was so consumed by fright. She escorted me to the surgery room where I took off my jacket and hat and placed them both on the cabinet.
I situated myself in the reclining deathbed and then a male assistant entered the room. I asked him “are there going to be needles involved? I have a very low pain tolerance and I hate them.”
“Yes,” he exclaimed “but it’s only when we put the IV in your arm. After that you’ll be asleep.” Before I knew it, the IV was in my arm and an oxygen mask was placed on my face. “This is it,” I thought “this is my time.”
I was lying there for about 10 minutes with that mask on my face and the IV in my arm when everyone piled back into the room to sentence me to my death.
The oral surgeon introduced himself as Dr. Staples, and he began to ask me questions about my studies. He didn’t fool me, though, because I knew that he was just trying to distract me while the drugs seduced me into a coma. Just like how they had done when I had my three knee surgeries a while back.
“What school do you attend?” Dr. Staples asked
“Delta State University,” I replied.
“What’s your major?” he asked.
“English,” I replied.
“Ohh, so we have an English major here, y’all. I guess I have to speak proper now, huh.”
“Passeth me the utensils,” he joked.
I woke up and it was all over. I’m sort of confused about my whereabouts, but then I snap back into reality. I just had my wisdom teeth removed. My mouth is numb at this point, and a lady is standing over me.
“It’s all over sweetie,” she said.
Before I could even respond, I was in a wheelchair and they rolled me into a room with another patient who looked just as drugged as I was. A few seconds later, that person was rolled out so I sat there by myself.
I look up at a beautiful painting on the wall. I say out loud and to myself, “Wow that painting is so cool.” Within minutes I’m sitting in my boyfriend’s car, and I can clearly see that he’s recording my every move.
“You know I can see your camera recording me right,” I say.
“Duh that’s the point,” he responds.