Big wisdom-teeth extraction day on Friday. Drove my husband, the intended victim, down to the oral surgeon and attempted to control the wild ones in the waiting room while they yanked his teeth out in the inner sanctum. My son wanted to know if he could take his shoes off and lounge on the waiting room's leather couches. Received reproachful looks from a doughy couple in the corner.
Called back to pick up my husband, like a package I needed to sign for. There he was, slumped on a hallway bench, chin lolling on his chest, eyes closed, like a transient at a bus stop. I said hello, and the eyes rolled back in his head, mouth jerking back in a cartoon grimace. He was happy to see me.
Then the fun part. How to get a 6'3", 200 lb. ,heavily-medicated man down a flight of stairs without looking like a tumbling act from Cirque du Soleil. Answer: a previously overlooked elevator, and an obliging male attendant. It's like these people have done this before!
Spent the rest of the weekend watching my husband inspect the holes in his mouth every five minutes, and later, when the Vicodin was safely worn off, keeping him from making yet another trip to REI to stock up on crampons and additions to his impressive backpack collection.
He did send me flowers for Valentine's Day. Not sure if that was the drugs working, but I'll take them either way.