After over a decade of “watching them,” a dentist finally recommended I have my two impacted lower wisdom teeth yanked. We awoke early and Erika drove me to an oral surgeon in La Cañada where I was sat in an odd chair contraption. Heart monitor doohickies were stuck to my furry chest, another monitoring device strapped to my finger, a heart pressure cuff wrapped around my bicep, and a crafty shower cap placed on my head (I certainly wouldn’t want my hair to be a mess while my teeth are being bloodily cut and ripped from my mouth—fashion first). My inner elbow was pricked, a small air respirator slide over my face, and I was gone. It was dark and I was nowhere, completely unconscious. In what could have been a second or a century, I came to in the recovery room next to Erika. My recollections for the next few minutes are a haze. The memories before that don’t exist. I am told I was in good spirits and jocular, apparently cracking jokes with the nurse. I have no memory of the photo below.

Now those pesky teeth are gone, I’m 700 bucks poorer, and my face has sensation again. I hope the recovery continues like it has so far. I’ve heard horror stories.