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for all those already thinking it, this is not some self pitying emo post that you're going to get to tear up mercilessly. Actually, i had an assignment for my writing class that involved writing a piece on the worst day of our lives. I obviously put in a 110%, and feel that it may even be worth sharing with the world. or at least the population of trench wars. For anybody bored enough to actually read it, you're certainly in for an exciting literary experience!
edit: this is completely raw--no gramatical or structural changes have been made.
warning: extremely graphic.
Ok, so this was probably the worst 24 hour time period in my entire life—I was lucky enough to be graced with the following series of events over the summer.
It started off with a trip to the dentist to get my wisdom teeth out. If you speak to anybody who’s had theirs out, the general consensus is that ‘it sucks.’ In my case that would be a definite understatement. I was under the influence of the infamous “laughing gas” along with excessive Novocain (as a side note, I’d like to put in that this was my first dentist experience that wasn’t a standard cleaning. I’m big on dental hygiene because I’m frightened of having oral surgery.) So I was feeling pretty good, partly because of the gas, and partly because the hygienist who was wiping my drool was extremely attractive. Anyways, I was just laying there as the dentist went to work on my mouth. I claim no expertise on the procedure, but it seemed to go a little something like:
a. Drill into tooth
b. Attempt to wrench it out with a sharp object.
c. Repeat as often as necessary.
So I was under some very definite discomfort, regardless of whatever meds I was on. Aside from that, things went pretty smooth until with one especially zealous heaving motion, the dentist ripped a tooth out of my skull, dropped the tooth right back into my mouth, and knocked my gas mask off of my face. Under normal circumstances, it would have been a simple matter to remove the tooth from the mouth, and replace the mask. Unfortunately, I had no feeling in my mouth, and consequently no gag reflex to keep a large, bloody, freshly extricated wisdom tooth from sliding right down my throat, lodging itself somewhere short of my already churning stomach. At this point, it still could have been much worse; my breathing wasn’t restricted, and it would have been relatively easy to hack up the tooth once I processed what was happening. Unfortunately my extremely high strung dentist freaked out, and before I knew what was happening, had me flipped on my stomach and was pounding the back of my back/head to dislodge the wisdom tooth, projecting partially congealed blood and tooth by-products all over the office. Naturally I wasn’t ok with this, and as I opened my mouth to protest, something caught in my throat and I completely swallowed my tooth. By this time the effects of the gas had completely dissipated, and I was fighting hysteria, because I didn’t know what had just happened, but I was laying on my stomach in a dentist office with a belly full of blood and one large tooth. Luckily for the reader, this is only the beginning of my awful, no good, horrible day. Anyways, after we got things straightened up in the operating area, and calmed down the hysterical hygienist who I no longer found appealing at all, the procedure continued without any further incident. I’d later find out that the first tooth had provided so much difficulty because the roots had hooked under my jawbone, and had to be wrenched free. Needless to say, the swelling was s sight to behold.
So after being helped to my feet and led out of the office (I had been re-applied liberal amounts of the gas) I took my prescription with a grin and headed home for what I thought would be hours of ice cream and coddling. As it turned out, however, my stomach didn’t agree with the vicaden, and I wasn’t able to learn my lesson the first time I emptied my stomach of all the ice cream I had eaten. That day was largely uneventful, so lets jump forward a few hours to what I consider the low point of my life.
After taking my second dose of vicaden, I finally forced myself into a restless sleep about 2 am. Only to wake up at 4:30 with a very definite problem.
I’d like to interrupt here with a sort of informal disclaimer. I wouldn’t be doing this scenario justice if I spared any details, so the following text will be extremely graphic. Please do not proceed if pregnant or suffering from heart disease.
Right. So, 4 am, and I need to find a bathroom fast. Apparently the several ounces of blood and that damn tooth in my digestive system were coming back to haunt me. As soon as I stand up, I realize how desperate my situation is, and I literally sprint to the bathroom—hitting plenty of walls on the way, because I’m still pretty drugged up. I’m amazed that I was able to seat myself completely on the toilet before expelling the most acidic projectile diarrhea I have ever experienced. And we’re not talking short bursts here; there was a long continuous stream going. 4 am, freezing cold on my toilet in my basement bathroom, and I was almost positive I was expelling anything I had ever consumed through my rear end. As it turns out, I was only expelling half of everything I had ever consumed, because after the initial unclenching of the bowels, the heavy medication caught up with me and I knew the other half was about to come out the other way. Obviously I was reluctant to spew vomit all over the floor, and I obviously couldn’t move from my seated position to reach the sink, or shower, or any other easily washed surface. The only option I had was to seize the metal trash can we keep by the toilet and attempt to pry the lid off of it. Unfortunately the lid was fused to the body of the can, and after a couple failed attempts I was hit by another wave of nausea.
I had heard stories and news articles about people gaining super human strength during moments of extreme duress, but I had never experienced it until that moment. With a mighty heave I ripped the lid off the can with such excessive force that it popped off and hit me in the mouth at a very high speed. Completely ignoring the fact that my already swollen face was in intense pain and my lip was bleeding from where the edge of the lid had cut me, I buried my head in the can and proceeded to get rid of whatever was left in my system (it was mostly bile and blood, for those who are curious). Wow. So here I was, cold and alone at 4:37 am in my dudgeon of a bathroom downstairs with my cheeks ridiculously swollen from intense oral surgery, spurting out an extremely acidic bodily fluid out of both ends, bleeding from what turned out to be a pretty deep cut in my mouth, and battling a pounding migraine. After what seemed an eternity of this, I rest for a few moments to gather myself and begin to clean myself up only to realize that I am completely without any sort of toilet paper, tissue, towel, magazine, etc. I had managed to hit rock bottom without ever becoming a drug addict. I realize I have been unmercifully graphic to this point, but I’ll spare you the details as to how I removed myself from this situation.
Obviously as the reader at this point you’re going to be desperate for some sort of resolution, so I’ll provide an epilogue of sorts. I made it back to sleep and made a full recovery from my surgery after three weeks. The average time is one, but I ended up getting an infection. It was a pus filled germ resort in my mouth—a story for a different time. Overall, the surgery was pretty much the worst experience of my life. On a final note, I’d like to discuss the bathroom. Obviously I wasn’t in any condition to tidy up after myself after “The Incident,” so I had to wait until I was feeling up to par. It didn’t occur to me until a few months later that I never emptied the trash can that I had hurled into. I simply replaced the lid and shoved it back into the corner. And its not that my family isn’t sanitary, its just that people rarely see fit to use that particular trash can, and as a result it doesn’t get changed too often. I actually moved out before anybody has dealt with it—for all I know its still there. I don’t envy the person who has to deal with the festering acid vomit that I left waiting beneath a shallow layer of used tissue.
edit: this is completely raw--no gramatical or structural changes have been made.
warning: extremely graphic.
Ok, so this was probably the worst 24 hour time period in my entire life—I was lucky enough to be graced with the following series of events over the summer.
It started off with a trip to the dentist to get my wisdom teeth out. If you speak to anybody who’s had theirs out, the general consensus is that ‘it sucks.’ In my case that would be a definite understatement. I was under the influence of the infamous “laughing gas” along with excessive Novocain (as a side note, I’d like to put in that this was my first dentist experience that wasn’t a standard cleaning. I’m big on dental hygiene because I’m frightened of having oral surgery.) So I was feeling pretty good, partly because of the gas, and partly because the hygienist who was wiping my drool was extremely attractive. Anyways, I was just laying there as the dentist went to work on my mouth. I claim no expertise on the procedure, but it seemed to go a little something like:
a. Drill into tooth
b. Attempt to wrench it out with a sharp object.
c. Repeat as often as necessary.
So I was under some very definite discomfort, regardless of whatever meds I was on. Aside from that, things went pretty smooth until with one especially zealous heaving motion, the dentist ripped a tooth out of my skull, dropped the tooth right back into my mouth, and knocked my gas mask off of my face. Under normal circumstances, it would have been a simple matter to remove the tooth from the mouth, and replace the mask. Unfortunately, I had no feeling in my mouth, and consequently no gag reflex to keep a large, bloody, freshly extricated wisdom tooth from sliding right down my throat, lodging itself somewhere short of my already churning stomach. At this point, it still could have been much worse; my breathing wasn’t restricted, and it would have been relatively easy to hack up the tooth once I processed what was happening. Unfortunately my extremely high strung dentist freaked out, and before I knew what was happening, had me flipped on my stomach and was pounding the back of my back/head to dislodge the wisdom tooth, projecting partially congealed blood and tooth by-products all over the office. Naturally I wasn’t ok with this, and as I opened my mouth to protest, something caught in my throat and I completely swallowed my tooth. By this time the effects of the gas had completely dissipated, and I was fighting hysteria, because I didn’t know what had just happened, but I was laying on my stomach in a dentist office with a belly full of blood and one large tooth. Luckily for the reader, this is only the beginning of my awful, no good, horrible day. Anyways, after we got things straightened up in the operating area, and calmed down the hysterical hygienist who I no longer found appealing at all, the procedure continued without any further incident. I’d later find out that the first tooth had provided so much difficulty because the roots had hooked under my jawbone, and had to be wrenched free. Needless to say, the swelling was s sight to behold.
So after being helped to my feet and led out of the office (I had been re-applied liberal amounts of the gas) I took my prescription with a grin and headed home for what I thought would be hours of ice cream and coddling. As it turned out, however, my stomach didn’t agree with the vicaden, and I wasn’t able to learn my lesson the first time I emptied my stomach of all the ice cream I had eaten. That day was largely uneventful, so lets jump forward a few hours to what I consider the low point of my life.
After taking my second dose of vicaden, I finally forced myself into a restless sleep about 2 am. Only to wake up at 4:30 with a very definite problem.
I’d like to interrupt here with a sort of informal disclaimer. I wouldn’t be doing this scenario justice if I spared any details, so the following text will be extremely graphic. Please do not proceed if pregnant or suffering from heart disease.
Right. So, 4 am, and I need to find a bathroom fast. Apparently the several ounces of blood and that damn tooth in my digestive system were coming back to haunt me. As soon as I stand up, I realize how desperate my situation is, and I literally sprint to the bathroom—hitting plenty of walls on the way, because I’m still pretty drugged up. I’m amazed that I was able to seat myself completely on the toilet before expelling the most acidic projectile diarrhea I have ever experienced. And we’re not talking short bursts here; there was a long continuous stream going. 4 am, freezing cold on my toilet in my basement bathroom, and I was almost positive I was expelling anything I had ever consumed through my rear end. As it turns out, I was only expelling half of everything I had ever consumed, because after the initial unclenching of the bowels, the heavy medication caught up with me and I knew the other half was about to come out the other way. Obviously I was reluctant to spew vomit all over the floor, and I obviously couldn’t move from my seated position to reach the sink, or shower, or any other easily washed surface. The only option I had was to seize the metal trash can we keep by the toilet and attempt to pry the lid off of it. Unfortunately the lid was fused to the body of the can, and after a couple failed attempts I was hit by another wave of nausea.
I had heard stories and news articles about people gaining super human strength during moments of extreme duress, but I had never experienced it until that moment. With a mighty heave I ripped the lid off the can with such excessive force that it popped off and hit me in the mouth at a very high speed. Completely ignoring the fact that my already swollen face was in intense pain and my lip was bleeding from where the edge of the lid had cut me, I buried my head in the can and proceeded to get rid of whatever was left in my system (it was mostly bile and blood, for those who are curious). Wow. So here I was, cold and alone at 4:37 am in my dudgeon of a bathroom downstairs with my cheeks ridiculously swollen from intense oral surgery, spurting out an extremely acidic bodily fluid out of both ends, bleeding from what turned out to be a pretty deep cut in my mouth, and battling a pounding migraine. After what seemed an eternity of this, I rest for a few moments to gather myself and begin to clean myself up only to realize that I am completely without any sort of toilet paper, tissue, towel, magazine, etc. I had managed to hit rock bottom without ever becoming a drug addict. I realize I have been unmercifully graphic to this point, but I’ll spare you the details as to how I removed myself from this situation.
Obviously as the reader at this point you’re going to be desperate for some sort of resolution, so I’ll provide an epilogue of sorts. I made it back to sleep and made a full recovery from my surgery after three weeks. The average time is one, but I ended up getting an infection. It was a pus filled germ resort in my mouth—a story for a different time. Overall, the surgery was pretty much the worst experience of my life. On a final note, I’d like to discuss the bathroom. Obviously I wasn’t in any condition to tidy up after myself after “The Incident,” so I had to wait until I was feeling up to par. It didn’t occur to me until a few months later that I never emptied the trash can that I had hurled into. I simply replaced the lid and shoved it back into the corner. And its not that my family isn’t sanitary, its just that people rarely see fit to use that particular trash can, and as a result it doesn’t get changed too often. I actually moved out before anybody has dealt with it—for all I know its still there. I don’t envy the person who has to deal with the festering acid vomit that I left waiting beneath a shallow layer of used tissue.
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