Empty Bottle

For the past few days, I've been on drugs. I'm not going to tell you it wasn't an enjoyable few days, but I am glad to be returning to a land where I actually care.

I had all four wisdom teeth pulled on Tuesday. I really don't remember the rest of the day. I remember napping on the couch and feeling like I was choking because there was so much blood in my mouth (I'm sorry, should I have warned you?), I remember my first experience of trying to chew with my two front teeth, and then swallowing straight-back immediately so as not to touch any other part of my mouth, and I remember my mother telling me to take pain pills--I wasn't sure why I needed them, I felt just fine.

Wednesday, Thursday and Friday passed in a large blur. I remember talking to people, but I don't remember about what. I remember trying to read and being frustrated I was nodding off every two pages--literally. I remember thinking food would taste good, but the thought of moving my jaw scared me. I remember being confused about why I couldn't remember the last time I had taken my pain pills--I was taking them every four hours, how hard could it be? I participated in activities, but whatever I did I usually felt disinterested and listless. I felt as if people were moving around me, and there was nothing else on earth for me to do but to sit back and watch them--and I was just fine doing that.

I had to go off the meds on Friday. I had to go to work on Saturday for eight hours. Since the surgery, however, I hadn't been awake for eight straight hours, and the hours I had been awake I was certainly not in any shape to be working. I wasn't sure how I was going to feel.

I woke up Saturday sore. My mouth hurt. I had spent the night searching for a comforting way to put my head on the pillow so I could sleep. I thought about the blissful hours spent on my pills: I hadn't known there was an uncomfortable way to put my head, each and every place had seemed perfect. I cursed the clock that told me to report to work in a two hours.

That eight-hour shift was the longest I have ever spent at work. It was worse than all the the Black Friday's put together. My head ached from the moment I arrived until I finally left. Time has never passed as slowly as it did that day. I have never done so many stupid things as I did that day (I carried a box halfway across the store, looked down at it, realized I had no idea why it was in my hands or what I was doing with it, and carried it back the length of the store--I never do stuff like that).

By that night, however, after feeling horrible and wanting nothing more than the sweet relief of my pain pills (oh yes, I still have some), I felt like eating real food and participating in a conversation--I was returning.

I still have a few more days until I'm declared completely better and at no risk for dry sockets. I'm hoping I don't have them. I don't want to go through all of that.

There would, however, probably be more pills, right?