Procrastination got me in a pretty serious way.

Back in February, I'd noticed a small bump in my mouth. I'd initially dismissed it as a canker sore since I'm prone to chewing the inside of my mouth (anxiety). I've had a lot of them over the years, and though unpleasant, they never lasted long. Around this time I'd also gone delinquent on my dental status and had to book an appointment for an examination.

Before the examination started, they asked me if I'd noticed anything out of the ordinary and figured I'd get a second opinion on it, so I brought up the bump. They looked and "didn't see anything", and dismissed it as possibly just a random mouth sore.

Easy day.

Months passed and the damn thing didn't get any smaller; it actually got a lot bigger, going from an initial pea-sized object to one the size of a bean.

So I scheduled another appointment to have it looked at. The doctors this time were much more thorough and spent an uncomfortable amount of time running their (gloved) finger over it until they decided it was an odontogenic keratocyst, or OKC. More frustratingly, they showed me the X-ray I'd had done back in February and were able to see "a shadowy object" where the cyst was, and compared it to a much larger object for this visit.

They scheduled me for an appointment at the hospital for oral surgery; mentioning that they were going to make an incision and scoop out the material.

Seriously. Scoop?

A couple weeks later (last Thursday), my wife and I went down for the procedure.

Checked in, they hooked me up to various monitors and, after realizing that my astronomical blood pressure wasn't going anywhere, got started.

An hour and a half later, I woke up to them mentioning that they'd gotten some "cheese" out of there, among other things. Looking to the site, I saw a small bin with circulating red liquid.

"Is that my blood?" I asked the nurse.

"Yes. And some other things."

Oh, god.

The doctor brought in a wheelchair and rolled me down to the pickup area where my wife was waiting along with the meds (surprisingly, not just motrin), and we headed home.

When I go home, I was happy to see that they'd included oxycodone in the care package, but that they'd only included twelve pills.

Weekend was more or less agony, though the oxycodone worked like a champ.

...Quickly ran out.

And here I am today.

More tender than anything else, still bruised to high hell, and with serious nerve damage from the surgery. They said it'll go away in a few days to a couple weeks, but until then it'll feel like "a lost leg".

Translation: It feels like they were overzealous with their novocaine.


Two days left in the work week and then I can crawl back in my hole.