Surgical Strike

The teeth are orthodontically positioned. The surgeons are well practiced. The hospital is prepaid. Tomorrow I wake my ass up at 4:30 AM for an orthognathic necessity .

This surgery has been on the docket for the last decade. It's been a goal for ten years, and the dull, numbing jaw pain has been a constant reminder of a goal left incomplete. The old adage of course being anticipation is a bitch, but I did not fear the surgery because I had pain and the operation was the solution.

However, anxiety caught up to me Tuesday morning at the pre op. The surgical strike force explained their mission in detail. Using a spliced up skull as a prop, the head surgeon provided a visual illustration of the procedure. To cope with the mental images of my filleted pallet, I decided to blog. Second only to drinking heavily, I find writing to be the most therapeutic activity.

Tonight's therapy will be a blanket criticism of just about everyone I know and a six pack of the cheapest beer I could find at the gas station Kwik E Mart.

Without a doubt the question received most frequently: "Are you nervous?" Trite. The conversation opener was constantly repeated. The absurdity of the question should be obvious, but it became the norm in response to the operation's description. Comparable to the greeting, "How are you?" demanding a response of "Fine," I'd respond with an equally meaningless, "No."

But to answer the question truthfully...of course I'm fucking nervous! A team of dudes I barely know are about to cut open my head through my mouth to slice bones in my skull and rearrange them as they see fit. If I wasn't nervous for a procedure of this magnitude, I would not be fully appreciative of the future face fuck coming my way.

Conversation progresses with, "Oh, I'm sure you'll do fine." The statement is not to be taken literally, but I do for humor's sake. Well I won't be doing anything. I'll be knocked the fuck out and so doped up when I come to I'll likely ask the surgeon, who looks like Dr Turk, to do his awesome Poison dance.

The conclusion is something along the lines of, "Welp...good luck!" Thanks. This I need. Good luck. Despite my friend's sincerity, half the time it feels like a *wink wink* I know you're fucked statement. Luck is all there is to offer because there is immense ignorance about the procedure from both parties.

In the name of therapy, I hope you all find it in your hearts to forgive my blog bashing of your dribble surgery banter over the past month. You're a friend, and I appreciate your sympathies.

Like a porn star faking an orgasm for a better performance, I'll fake courage for my operation in the hopes of not looking like a total puss. Despite being scared shitless, I know that I'll come out much improved on the other side. Less pain. Improved bite. Beautiful smile. The knowledge of better days ahead is keeping me together...

...that...and a cheap ass six pack.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf