Losing teeth.

I've spent the drug-induced weekend wondering just how long one is supposed to ponder a grave decision, such as whether to voluntarily subject your jaws to the torture of being cut apart and then sewn up. Then again, it never was a matter of yes or no for me; but more a matter of when. Afterall, I'd certainly sat on the niggling toothaches that came and went for long enough, so much so that when the 10-day persistent toothache rolled along, I knew, deep, deep down in my gut that it was time. And since I was at it, why not remove all four achey buggers, instead of drawing out the process by extracting them in pairs? The bonus: I get to be asleep while the dental surgeon declares war on my gums.

The three weeks leading up to the big op was uneventful, to say the least. While my colleagues were inspired to share their horror extraction stories during pantry lunches, I remained mostly unaffected,  focused instead on working like a woman on a mission in order to earn my planned medical leave. Yeah yeah, I can lose them teeth but I still have a magazine to publish. Ironic really, how the erratic world of magazine publishing is supported by this clockwork grind. But I digress.

The first trickles of apprehension started about three days before the op. I can't remember what spurred it, but I do recall having a "oh man, it's happening this Friday!" moment while walking back from lunch on a sunny day. Work kept me distracted well enough until Thursday night - I'd normally want nothing more than to cab home for a quick bite after four straight days of overtime, but that night, all I could think of was how I wouldn't be able to eat properly for a while, and I admit, how there may be the tiniest chances I may never wake to eat again (drama, I know). So I rolled home just before my no-food-no-drink midnight curfew, stuffed to the brim with kimchi and barbecued short ribs, and straight into bed with butterflies (or it could be all that food) in my belly.

I awoke thirsty and hungry (how is that even possible?!) on Friday morning and I really didn't have much time to ponder life and death before I had to "check in" to the day ward and dress in those horrid hospital robes. Nope, forest green and baby pink will never be my favourite colour combination. The rest of the pre-op procedures happened in a flurry - my blood pressure was taken several times as it read a little too low for the nurses' liking (what do they expect, I was starving) but they got over it and I was soon escorted down a long hallway towards the operating theatre. Somewhere in the flurry I kicked myself mentally for not completing my insurance nominee forms.

I was then taken through a risk-acknowledgement pep talk by a perky albeit inexperienced doctor, who made me think of Greys' Anatomy and Kenrick and how I should do my part in contributing to medical education. But while I smiled and nodded cursorily, my mind screamed accusatory questions: Why did I choose to go under general anesthesia (read: indefinitely comatose) instead of extracting just two teeth under local anesthesia (read: squirmy but still awake)??

Because you see, I realised then that it wasn't the pain that scared me. It never was the pain that scared me, but the fact that I may not wake up from the anesthesia. Because as easy as it sounds to be asleep and oblivious as strangers sawed through my gums, it is hard, very hard for me to voluntarily surrender myself to unconsciousness. It was, to me, choosing to gamble death, and I was so close to throwing in the towel and screaming: "No, don't put me to sleep; I'll sit through the horror of having you saw through my gums while I'm awake!" But the thought of putting off the extraction and rescheduling an appointment irritated me enough to hop on the operating table, amidst beeping machines, scrubs-clad staff and yup, another eager trainee, this time tasked with finding an appropriate vein in my left hand. "I'm educating the young... I'm educating the young," I breathed through a bruising pain, smiled at my anesthesiologist (who oddly resembles The Flying Dutchman) and drifted off to oblivion.

I awoke an hour later to the first perky doctor, who shakily assured me that my tastebuds were still intact. It was too quick and surreal, waking up in a different room, scrub cap removed and my hair smoothed out. I would have thought we hadn't begun, if not for the tell-tale spot of blood on my blanket and jaws that felt like they'd survived an hour in a boxing ring.

Solace.

image via weheartit.com

It hasn't been the breeziest of weeks. I've had my fair share of laughter, courtesy of my nutty colleagues and, I've come to realise, an absurd ability to laugh at myself, but there's been a hint of gloom hanging over it all; the kind of gloom that can encourage not-so-cheery feelings to grow and fester, if not properly tended to.

I had one of those mornings yesterday, quite possibly because I was lugging around what feels like a body's worth of loaned tableware and hardcover books about town. I was grumpy and cranky, and my top was unflatteringly hitched up into awkward folds by the loaded bags.

I tottered briskly on towards the last stop, impatiently blowing my fringe out of my eyes. I came up the escalator from the underpass and instinctively, my steps slowed as my vision focused on the Sun Moulin Bakery.

 The aromas wafting out from the bakery reeled me in and I soon found myself navigating its narrow aisles in wide-eyed wonder, oblivious to the weight on my left shoulder now that all my other senses were consumed by the sight and smells of freshly baked pastries.

I was instantly cheered. I'd found my happy place.