Dental surgery

Two hours until "dental surgery."  That means yanking out one of my molars.  "Extracting" it, to put it in polite dental terms.

Why, you  may ask?  Your curiosity at fever pitch?  Because one of the roots, beneath the gum line, is badly decayed.  It's never really bothered me; but when I use a dental pick at night, I have to be careful where I stick it or I do get a jolt of pain.

My dentist told me it was either an extraction, or, for considerably more money, a root canal and crown.  But I had long ago lost the opposing molar -- at the far rear of my jaw -- and the tooth served no functional purpose.  In other words, I didn't chew with it.

I mulled the choice over for several months.  I like the cheaper price, but I hate losing any portion of my body, a valued part of me ever since my "12-year-molars" began coming in, a large number of decades ago.   (The offending tooth is #15, in case I have any curious dentists among my readership.)  And the dentist recommended the extraction.

So I went to the pharmacy and loaded up with antibiotics (of which I've just taken the first two pills), ibuprofen, and heavy duty opiates (yikes!)  Just fifteen pills of the latter, along with grave instructions on the various dangers to which even proper use of the drug could subject me.  Plus a jug of evil-looking mouthwash.

So.  I've taken my first pills (the antibiotics).  I've had what I refer to as my "last meal"  (I was advised to eat before the appointment; the instructions declined to give reasons for this, but I can read between the lines.)  I have opiates in hand.  And I'll soon be on my way to meet my Doom.

In case this, my 1,477th post, should be my last -- it's been fun guys.  Have a nice life, and chew while you still can.