Well, after several months of waiting, the day has finally arrived.
This afternoon I will walk the flourescent lit corridors of the Queens Medical Centre, attend upon the maxillofacial surgeon and say goodbye to my left bottom wisdom tooth. Hopefully a very quick, pain free, goodbye.
It’s been a two year journey of denial to this point, of various bouts of antibiotics and pain that I have shrugged off with an ‘anything is better than going in to hospital to have it removed’.
Because, dear reader, I am a complete and utter chicken.
I am scared of hospitals, scared of needles, scared of maxillofacial surgeons (even though I hadn’t even heard of them until my appointment two months ago), scared of pain, scared of being so scared that I turn into a wreck and have to be escorted from the building jibbering.
So scared that even now, typing this some six hours ahead of my surgery, my hands are shaking (just a little tiny bit).
There is a silver lining, because knowing that I was going to be next to useless today, I decided not to put my colleagues through the misery of having to hear me whimper all morning and have taken the morning off.
Reader is there anything more luxurious than a lie in with the husband on a Thursday morning, a cooked breakfast, an almond milk latte and tapping out a blog post whilst still in pyjamas?
This is my kind of Thursday morning. I’ll worry about the afternoon later.