My wisdom teeth are now in a clinical waste bin somewhere

Well, it turned out that I didn't have to wait for nearly as long as I had suspected to get my wisdom tooth operation rescheduled. Amazingly, there was a slot available for me last Wednesday, and so I duly trudged off to the hospital yet again, slightly nervous but not overly bothered: after all, I'd done all the mental preparation and panicking a fortnight earlier and could see no need to repeat it. The weather had, almost inevitably, turned white that morning, but fortunately this snow was of the unpleasant damp, slushy variety that although useless for building snowmen is nonetheless good in that it is rarely causes major traffic disruptions.

We arrived at the hospital in good time and headed to the Day Surgery Unit where my long-suffering boyfriend Richard dropped me off. There was apparently no room for friends and relatives to wait with the patients, and so while I settled down with a Terry Pratchett novel he ventured out to savour the many delights of Swindon (stop laughing at the back! it's twinned with Disney World, don’t you know). I'd only managed to read the few pages before I got called away to see the first of many medical professionals. I'm not entirely sure, but I think this first guy might have been the surgeon. He entered the waiting room, all gangly limbs swathed in ill-fitting blue scrubs and called out for 'Kiera Morgan'. Now, despite its worrying rise in trendiness due to the likes of Ms Knightley, Kiera is not as of yet a common name, and so I assumed this was me, and followed him into a small dark room. He pointed out, yet again, quite how awkward my wisdom teeth were, got me to re-sign a form, then sent me back to the waiting room.

A couple of pages of Pratchett later and my name was called again, correctly this time. A smiley nurse introduced herself with a 'my name is Helen', spoken as if following a script, and led me into another small dark room where she proceeded to take my blood pressure and weigh me; all the normal nursey things, but somehow made more sinister under the dim glare of the emergency lighting (apparently there was some kind of test going on with the electrics). The next call was from the anaesthetist, another friendly, jolly sort who exuded an air of competence - rather reassuring at seeing as she was the one who was going to be making sure that I didn’t wake up mid-operation.

Then, back to my book. Time passed, I managed about a chapter’s worth then another nurse called me over. Great news (for me, anyway)! The person who was at the top of the list hadn't turned up and so I would be the first to be operated on. I was told to get dressed into an NHS-regulation gown with NHS-regulation dressing gown over the top. Both of these garments were covered in a plethora of little ties which, despite their great number, didn’t seem to pair up in any sensible way. I did my best regardless, tying the sides of the clothing together in the most sensible way I could fathom, and so made myself half-decent. I briefly wondered what kind of operation the previous wearer of this get-up had undergone, but rapidly decided I’d rather not go there and banished such thoughts from my mind. As instructed, I placed my belongings into a locker then returned to my seat.

Alas, I was left to wait for a further 45 minutes. A whole three-quarters of an hour to fill and my book, my only source of entertainment, was locked away in a small metal box. Frustratingly I could see said small metal box; it was a mere four metres from me and yet it was completely inaccessible. Now, I am not very good at sitting quietly and doing nothing. Not very good at all. I fidgeted uncomfortably for a little while and then spotted a newspaper on a table. A newspaper! Something to read! Salvation was at hand. I rose, grabbed the paper and turned it over.
It was the Daily Mail.
Bugger.
Tentatively, I flicked through the first few pages, but depressingly the standard of journalism was exactly what one would expect from such a publication. Not wishing to risk polluting my brain with right-wing anti-immigrant bile any further I instead endeavoured to do the cryptic crossword. This was rather a tricky task given that I had no pen, but I persevered regardless.

At 2 o’clock on the dot I was called away by yet another nurse. Limping alarmingly, and attempting some small talk in a most unenthusiastic manner, she led me through a maze of corridors and past tens of operating theatres to a little room containing my anaesthetist. Here I was quickly put at ease, laid down on the bed, and injected with drugs. The world went funny for a few seconds and then drifted away.

I came to in the recovery room. I can vaguely remember it being a large room, but without many other beds in it. Being still very drowsy I wanted to immediately go back to sleep, but the nurse looking after me, Helen again I think, wanted to talk. She kept asking me all sorts of questions, many of which were just about me in general and not related to the operation or my current pain levels. This I found most annoying. I suppose she did it to ascertain how much the anaesthetic had really worn off, but responding to her questions with a seriously-inflated, painful face mostly covered by an oxygen mask was not the easiest of tasks. The friendly anaesthetist came over at one point and told me I’d done very well, a nice compliment, but I do feel that all I did was lie back unconscious, they did all the work. Apparently the operation itself went fine; it took over an hour rather than the standard 20 minutes, but it nonetheless proceeded without any problems

I was soon (I say soon, but I didn’t have any real concept of the passage of time at that point) taken back to the ward, where there was a new group of nurses. One came over and tried to get me up and dressed, but as this resulted in me almost falling over it was decided that more time in bed was in order. Eventually I regained full consciousness and was able to leave, after being provided with a brown paper bag full of drugs – not dodgy-looking at all! The ever-obliging Richard collected me and we drove back to Fairford. Annoyingly I then had to stay up until 10pm to take some of the pills- I would much rather have gone straight to bed.

Since then I have mostly been doing not a lot. Today is the first day I have been able to speak, and therefore write, without it being overly painful. The doing 'not a lot' has been wearing thin, as has my diet which has mostly consisted of soup. I suppose soup is nice but over the last few days I have developed a deep-seated dislike of it. I watch my parents eating their pizzas, pasta bakes and other such culinary delights and I inwardly seethe with jealousy. But things can only improve. After all, following several days with a face that I thought might burst if I pricked it with a pin, things have started to calm down. I look more like myself again, which is a relief as looking in mirrors and seeing an over-stuffed hamster staring back was freaking me out. These quibbles have been but minor inconveniences however: the most important thing is that the evil wisdom teeth are gone and so can trouble me no more. Hurrah!