Mingo.Life

Brutal. That’s the best way I can describe the fourfold wisdom tooth extraction surgery I recently underwent and the subsequent painful road to recovery. Absolutely brutal. I’m incredibly thankful I was unconscious for the procedure itself. Now that the fog is lifting, I can feel that the surgeon went pretty deep on the right-hand side, and the left-hand side just looks a mess. They’ve stitched my gum to my cheek in places, to promote healing, and I can only imagine the rivers of blood gushing forth from my mouth whilst I lay there oblivious. Yuck. This is to take nothing away from everyone who reads this, or whom I or you may know going through far worse experiences, but I thought I’d share the rocky road to recovery I’ve just stumbled along incoherently.

This turned out to be a stark example of the disparity between expectation and reality.

See, what I thought might happen is that I’d enjoy a much needed peaceful week off of the demanding duties of work and life. The doctor had said all I had to do was avoid any kind of physical exertion so as to avoid disturbing the blood clots and prolong my healing. Can do, boss! I envisioned hours with my PlayStation, a wishlist of films to watch and books to read, and even tackling some home projects like sorting out piles of baby clothes. Maybe, after many long years of being a busy husband and father, I could start a new save on football manager.

Oh, how wrong I was…

The doctor had said my recovery time would be a simple 1-3 days, maybe 3-5 at worst, and then I’d be “right as rain”. Oh, how very wrong he was.

The reality was more like a solid two weeks and counting on the pain train. No screen time – I couldn’t even focus my eyes if I’d wanted to. It was just pain, nausea, and a severe lack of sleep due to said pain and nausea. A veritable barrage of unpleasant and unexpected symptoms owing to complications with my recovery would ensue, leaving me a broken man. My medical track record of simple procedures turning into a messy recovery is now surely high enough to count on two hands. Lady luck and I need to have a chat.

But Why?
I can hear you asking, “Why did you even have this surgery in the first place?”
Good question.

The key thing for me to remember is, it’s done. It’s behind me. In the past. All four of my wisdom teeth are now gone, sliced into bits (that thought still makes me shudder), and yanked from their deeply embedded fleshy home.

On my left side, the tooth was impacted, growing sideways and pushing into the other molars. This caused me a near-constant day and night ache, and my teeth were being slowly pushed together at the front. Worse still, it left a void underneath itself that, despite my best dental hygiene efforts, would trap food and turn into a monthly infection. My dentist was probably tired of seeing me. My bank balance was definitely tired of me seeing the dentist, and I had run through almost every relevant antibiotic. I was apparently starting to become at risk of developing sepsis (very bad, slightly deadly—you really don’t want that).

Over on the right side, Mr. Wise Tooth was relatively straight, but obnoxiously large and pushing his way in. He was, however, deep and painful. The tooth had been causing a crushing sensation and random pains that often interfered with enjoying a good Teriyaki Pork dinner cooked by Emma. Simply put, I was unwilling—and to some extent unable—to continue the rest of my life (hopefully another 50-60 years) with those little chompers causing so many issues. The dentist, after a few x-rays, referred me for surgery. The teeth had to go. Despite my moaning, I genuinely appreciate the NHS for providing this level of healthcare and for doing a good job of getting those suckers fully out.

Sadly, we said goodbye to a relative.
The first thing I’d like to acknowledge is that, tragically, on the same day as my surgery, we said goodbye to my dear Uncle Adrian. His funeral was held that same day, after he had recently passed away from a heart attack. I was relieved to make it home just in time to log in and watch a live stream of the ceremony. I am not ashamed to admit that I shed a tear. It starkly reminded me of how precious life is and how suddenly it can be taken away. One day, Adrian walked up his garden path to go to work, and no one knew it would be the last time.

I sat with Emma, pointing out various family members on the screen, realizing I hadn’t seen some of them in years. After the ceremony, I still had enough hospital-grade painkillers in me to sit a while with Emma and reflect on some memories of Adrian, even if my ability to speak was rapidly declining. Memories of my Aunt Adele’s little Jack Russells they shared, Patchy and Rolly, and how one would pee when excited, which always made me laugh. Memories of big family Christmas get-togethers at my grandparents’ house.

My thoughts truly are with family, especially my Aunt Adele and my Cousin Terrance, in this difficult time.

*

Day 0: Home
The day began with the surgery, followed by the funeral, and then straight to bed. I was utterly drained, both physically and emotionally. For the next 24 hours, I was swimming in hospital anaesthetic, which led me to mistakenly believe that recovery would be a breeze. Thanks also to the cocktail of drugs, I remember my parents briefly visited before the funeral, but I genuinely can not recall what was said. What I do remember is spending the entire day and night unable to close my jaw, which just hung open like a neanderthal.

Days 1 – 3: A Nauseating Blur
Honestly, I don’t really remember much from these 3 days either. From the Saturday afternoon right through to Tuesday morning is a bit of an exhausting blur of nausea and dizziness, pain and agony. The distinction between day and night faded as I slept fitfully. I woke at odd intervals to medicate, spit blood into the en-suite sink and clutch my jaw in disbelief. At times it felt when I was lying there semi-conscious like the teeth were being pulled out there and then. I was unsure if my body was remembering some physical sensation from the procedure and cruelly playing it back to me, or if my pain reflexes were just working overtime. I had been prescribed a high dose of codeine, which, being an opioid, made me both drowsy and nauseated. Eating was impossible; my face was swollen like a hamster’s cheeks stuffed with food. My sustenance was limited to water and a daily ice cream milkshake blended for me kindly by Emma. By Day 4, my body began to suffer from a lack of nutrition.

Day 4: Fevers & Nightmares
I awoke with a fever. By 5 a.m., the bed sheets were drenched with sweat. I took myself out into the cool morning air in the garden and watched the sun rise. It was particularly beautiful that morning, and I had a moment of calm to analyze the situation. It was a chilly morning, yet I was still sweating, even standing outside in very little clothing. Fever, then. Not good. What is my body fighting here? Then, I remembered.

I recalled the doctor’s warning to avoid physical exertion, as it could dislodge crucial blood clots and lead to a condition known as Dry Socket. This painful condition occurs when the empty bone socket becomes exposed and prone to infection, leaving raw nerves to cause intense agony.  On Day 1, I had briskly climbed the stairs while clutching a glass of saltwater rinse and heading toward my soon-to-be-blood-soaked pillow. I remembered spitting out a small, fleshy lump after the rinse. In my drug-induced haze, I hadn’t thought much of it, but now the pieces started to fit together. And this, dear reader, was my first complication. Hopefully with a lot of due care I could avoid this getting any worse.

Throughout the ordeal, Emma had called the emergency number on my discharge paperwork several times. Once again, she was my saving grace. I was eventually prescribed Naproxen and additional Codeine, and began taking these stronger medications to manage the situation.

Then The Nightmares Began.
There is a side effect to such a cocktail of delightful painkillers, and it is far worse than the aforementioned lack of ability to focus on a TV screen.

Enter: Vivid Nightmares.

Every night, while on these medications, I experienced deeply unsettling dreams that often jolted me awake, heart-pounding and disoriented. By Day 7, I started avoiding taking the pills at bedtime, dreading what the night might bring. This failed, of course, as I then suffered intense pain through the night. Many of these nightmares oddly revolved around my job, but let’s park that psychological analysis for another day, shall we…

One of these more remarkable and less terrifying nocturnal tales found me firmly in control of a seige, but somewhat frustrated and confused. I found myself at some sort of medical facility where there was a person armed with a knife. On taking point, I got eyes on the subject to identify that they were… Well, they were a toddler! Not too dissimilar to my own, but wandering up and down a corridor between two locked doors angrily brandishing an enormous kitchen knife and dragging it along the walls instead of, say, a crayon. I was then called into a meeting with various different professionals to discuss and plan our response to this “major incident”. NB; this does happen in real life. Dynamic tactical meetings are a common shared working practice in the life-saving industry.

However, my rational brain was starting to kick in slowly as dawn approached in the real world. In this weird dream, I took charge, loudly declaring how ridiculous this was, much to the scolding gaze of many higher ranking officials who would no doubt later reprimand me. I slammed my fist on the table and stormed out of the meeting, declaring the whole thing a farse and a folly. I flung open the magnet locked door and confronted the world’s most wanted criminal. With a stern pointed finger and a loud “NO!”, I snatched away the knife and told our tiny would-be terrorist to sit on the naughty step with no Bluey or Night Garden.

I woke up.

I smirked at the surreal parallels my troubled mind had conjured. Afterward, I crept into Poppy’s room and gently kissed her on the forehead before seeking my next dose of opioid pain relief as the searing pain in my lower jaw began to stir once again, ready to give me another morning of hell.

Day 5: Guilt
The doctor had assured me I’d be fine by now, according to typical recovery timelines. Unfortunately, I wasn’t. The pain remained at a solid 8/10 when it struck, coming in unpredictable spasms. My cheeks were still swollen. The fever was passing, but the nausea and lack of appetite remained. At least the bleeding had stopped. I had to force a small portion of soup into myself before my body started eating itself. I had dropped 3 kilograms in less than a week, and I’m not a particularly big guy to begin with.

I had been bedridden for most of the time, and Emma had been nothing short of a domestic goddess, keeping the house and family running, especially with regards to the kids. I felt deeply guilty yet incredibly grateful for her presence. We received help from a close friend one morning, which was a tremendous relief. This allowed Emma to avoid falling ill herself and kept the household from descending into chaos. Our friend took care of Evelyn for a while, and I can’t adequately express how much that meant to me. I love our daughters dearly, but it truly does take a village to raise a child.

Little did I know, though, the worst was yet to come…

PART TWO will be published next week. Enter your email in the box at the top of the page to subscribe to the blog and have it sent to your inbox (you might have to check your spam folder).

Thank you, everyone, for your continued support, encouragement, and kind comments. It was a brave thing for Emma to come out openly to tell the story of her recovery journey from the vice grip of a lifelong illness. All of your support and love means the world to us both.

I’d be really interested to know if anyone reading this has had their wisdom teeth out and how their recovery went? Or perhaps you’ve a friend or family member who has been through it recently? Or maybe you’re just generally terrified of the dentists. Please feel free to leave us a comment in the box below and share your wisdom (pun intended), and please consider the Buy Me a Coffee link above. Not for me, if anyone damn well deserves it – it’s Emma. She has selflessly been amazing throughout all of this. Caffeinate that woman. Thank you, and strap in for part two – it’ll make your jaw hurt just thinking about it, things really did get worse.

My end of blog post recipe for you this week is tap water. Anything else is insulting at this point. I miss food.