I wasn’t really that nervous, even though there was a slim chance I’d die. I mean, people did this all the time. If death was the worst that could happen, I’d have to take those chances. Eyeing the contents of the child-sized bottle, I popped the lid off with an acquired expertise, tipping my head back as the small blue pill tumbled down my throat. Just like Alice, I was about to fall down a very deep hole.

I woke up the morning of my surgery feeling at ease, if not entirely relaxed. Honestly, I was more annoyed to have been woken up by the blare of my 7:30 AM alarm than anything. I grabbed the orange bottle off my bookshelf without even thinking about it, dry-swallowing the last dose before heading to the bathroom. By the time my shower ended, I could feel the steam penetrating my head, filling me with clouds instead of sensible thoughts.

I don’t know how I got into my Sesame Street pajama pants or where my glasses went. The last thing I remember was the mask over my nose- the pure delight I felt as the cloud got heavier, though I swear I could’ve floated up to the ceiling right then. I didn’t, though. Instead, I sat still as the large, amiable man in blue scrubs pricked my hand, then everything went dark. I woke up hours later, still riding the high, but something had changed. The cloud was gone, replaced by something much heavier. I started crying something awful before slipping back under, faintly aware I must be in Hell.

I don’t know when I actually woke up the next time, but I vaguely remember a vanilla milkshake; choking down too many pills around a mouthful of gauze. My post-op painkillers weren’t something I was likely to get hooked on--I only had enough for maybe a week and a half--but that was enough. The actual procedure of removing my wisdom teeth had nothing on the week I spent compliant, curled up in my mom’s king sized bed, and later, on the couch downstairs. I slowly lost control of everything- what I ate, where I slept, when I showered. I nearly lost my mind- if I haven’t already, that is. Worse than having my teeth broken and pulled from my gaping mouth, I was under the rule of my mother once and for all, at least for the first few days.

Really, I’m grateful for her. My mom let me get away with a lot--more than she or I would let on--but as soon as I was slightly coherent, I was in charge of me again. As soon as I made myself a whole box of rice for lunch, I knew I was in the clear. She did, too, I guess. I started keeping track of my medicine intake, I slept in my own bed for the first time in a week- I even polished off half a dozen donuts as a courtesy to the other members of my family (they’re no good after the first hour of sitting out, trust me). Once the drugs were indefinitely out of my system, I bounced back, once again swearing them off for good. I don’t do drugs, and even though the pain was a bit much at times, I toughed it out. My mouth hurt something smart, but it was almost better to be in control of myself and clear-headed than loopy and druggy.

I guess I could say I learned a lot about myself after oral surgery. Truth is I don’t remember the half of it. Instead, here’s the token, “don’t do drugs!” and a promise to make a speedy recovery. Man, I need a pain pill.