A little less wisdom

Today was the day I have been dreading. I had 'minor surgery' on one wisdom tooth. For the past four mornings I have woken up between 5:30 and 6:30, which is unheard of for me..., I love sleep. It could be the beautiful sunshine flowing through my windows, or it's more likely to be the nerves and constant worry on my mind about the thought of having one of my teeth ripped out. I love sleep; I also very vainly love my teeth. They are naturally straight and white and I've never had a single problem with them, apart from this painful wisdom tooth that decided to grow out of the top of my gum. If anyone ever tells you that having a wisdom tooth out does not hurt (as I was told by a handful of people), they are lying. I have had injections in my toes and arms which did not hurt. I have numerous blood tests thanks to being anaemic and I've even had a tattoo on my wrist (a hummingbird if you are wondering), none of which hurt. Of course there is that unpleasant 'scratch' and it's not comfortable, but I find it quite fascinating and cannot bring my eyes away from watching. But injections in the mouth are on a whole other level. I had roughly 13 in total to get the right level of numbness. After the first 3 injections an attempt was made to pull the tooth out, it was in no way numb and I have never ever felt such unbearable pain. Torture. I thought I might pass out from the pain and the amount of agony was clearly reflected on my face as the assisting nurse grabbed hold of my hand, whilst the surgeon told me 'it's going to be ok sweetheart, I don't want to hurt you'. These two were lovely and I cannot thank them enough for how much they tried to relax me, with the standard small talk and the constant injections to make my mouth as numb as could be. Even though the antiseptic had the most disgusting taste, ever.

I'm now sat watching Michael McIntyre's comedy road show, taking paracetamol every 4 hours and treating myself to a galaxy milkshake. I'm in a lot of pain. But I'd love more than anything to be at the gym. Or at least sat in a pub garden drinking pimms and lemonade. The worse thing is I can't even drink a cup of tea to make me feel better. These are all ‘minor surgery’ restrictions, for a minimum of 24 hours. I'm feeling extremely sorry for myself right now if it wasn't already clear. But the milkshake is going down well and I can't really complain, I have a whole weekend of doing nothing but sitting in the sun. Beautiful.