I cried during the removal of my left-sided wisdom teeth (which side do you want?, he asked me and I said, surprise me, and he repeated the question) not because it hurt but because I imagined the spinnings and splashings and scratchings against my tooth. My eyes, big, betrayed my horror. I tried a pretty thought but thought about what my face should feel if it could.
Majo. Tell her she is going to here a crack, the dentist said in Spanish.
You are going to hear a crack, she told me.
I closed my eyes to avoid the two pairs of arms and hands, one set holding my jaw and the other pulling and breaking and pushing and saying, damn I hurt my finger!, and stopping to check his finger, yes it is fine, and discarding dentin and enamel on soon-to-be-red-imbued-gauze atop a stainless steel tray.
Take them as a souvenir, Majo said to me.
I did. They were in my pocket at the farmacy across the street, the one I frequent, and tried explaining but had to clamp my teeth together on cotton (for at least 30 minutes, Mary). They filled my prescriptions. I took the painkillers before I left the store.
And then I watched and watched and painted too but watched because between the pain and the numbness and occasional nausea I could not do anything but watch. I watched pirated cult classics and television shows from my past.
And I have to go back and do it again.
I can handle the thought of it for one reason: I loved the recovery.
It kind of made me feel like I had been person 12 in a 15 pit bar brawl, where broken chair and pool cue pieces were used as weapons. And I did it alone. Not the bar fight. That took 15 to tango. But the recovery was mine and that is good.
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