Shannon Ennis and Her Reaction From Anesthesia
What is the MAXIMUM number of body organs I can have removed without dying? My Mom had her gallbladder removed today, and I'm jealous. I've never had real surgery, just the upper-middle class, collegiate rite of passage, wisdom tooth removal. What a disappointing flirtation with danger! I went under the knife without getting to wear a spcial gown. I wasn't rolled from one room to another, therefore there was no opportunity for me to grab my mother's hand and start a sentence with, "If I don't make it...," nor was I able to show my fresh scar(s) to strangers for a small suggested donation.
I did, however, wake up in a teeny tiny recovery room, double the size of a phone booth, with mischief on my mind. I remember holding some gauze in a small white envelope, the kind you slip your cash in to give to your hairstylist, and feeling like I was Beavis or Butthead. Though not sure which B&B idiot I was, I managed to discern that leaving my come-to-room seemed like the greatest shitty idea I ever had. With a mouthfull of bloodied gauze, I followed my worst insitnct and snuck out. The drugs were incredible. I was so deleriously Happy Loopy that I wandered out into the hallway and knocked on the door of every operating/examining room within reach. I am told that by the time I was discovered disturbing the tooth removals of my dental patient brethren, I'd gathered a group of nurses into the middle of the hallway so I could ask them if they'd like to join me in a cocktail. Always the entertainier, I insisted that I felt fantastic and that we should take the party on the road.
Mom managed to pay the bill and toss me into the front seat of the Ennis family Volvo, but she forgot to strap me down. As penance for her mistake, she had to suffer while I continually opened and closed the passenger door at and in between stoplights. Everything I did felt like such fun, mostly b/c I knew it was inappropriate, but also b/c I got a panicked reaction from people. Even at 20, freaking the crap out of my Mom was a thrill, the kind I thought I'd lost after failing to let go of the tow rope when I wiped out water skiing for the first time. As that boat yanked my ski-less 45 lb. body around Lake Booby-kaka (who remembers the name of every lake in Wisconsin or Indiana?), Mom watched, helpless. Now this time it was her 100 lb. daughter flirting with diving out of the safest car manufactured in the world.
Most of my memories of the wisdom tooth frolic of '94 are fuzzy, very fuzzy. But my favorite is the one that Mom chose to haunt me with for the duration of my recovery. She begged me to stop talking, b/c when I did, I drooled blood and I guess that's gross. She insisted that I shut my vascular mouth and try writing things down as an alternate method of communication. When I reluctantly agreed, I snatched a pen and paper and jotted down a quick request:
Mom, you grew up in the 60s, you were cool once, where can we get more of this stuff?
The stuff I was refering to must have been the drugs that I'd begun to come down from, because, like a latent junkie, I tried to flatter and cadjole her into feeding my monkey.
For the next week, whenever I'd wince in pain or behave like a wuss, I'd get the 'you were cool' note shoved in front of my swollen jaw. Worse than that was getting my stitches checked at the Dr.'s office. Everyone remembered me well, the 'let's get a drink' girl. Apparently I was a delightful change of pace b/c most girls wake up from the dope crying like, well, girls. The entire office staff smiled at me and rolled their eyes like they'd seen me tap dance naked across Lake Michigan while they politely observed, "You put on quite a show."
posted by Shannon E. Ennis at
Friday, November 18, 2005
I did, however, wake up in a teeny tiny recovery room, double the size of a phone booth, with mischief on my mind. I remember holding some gauze in a small white envelope, the kind you slip your cash in to give to your hairstylist, and feeling like I was Beavis or Butthead. Though not sure which B&B idiot I was, I managed to discern that leaving my come-to-room seemed like the greatest shitty idea I ever had. With a mouthfull of bloodied gauze, I followed my worst insitnct and snuck out. The drugs were incredible. I was so deleriously Happy Loopy that I wandered out into the hallway and knocked on the door of every operating/examining room within reach. I am told that by the time I was discovered disturbing the tooth removals of my dental patient brethren, I'd gathered a group of nurses into the middle of the hallway so I could ask them if they'd like to join me in a cocktail. Always the entertainier, I insisted that I felt fantastic and that we should take the party on the road.
Mom managed to pay the bill and toss me into the front seat of the Ennis family Volvo, but she forgot to strap me down. As penance for her mistake, she had to suffer while I continually opened and closed the passenger door at and in between stoplights. Everything I did felt like such fun, mostly b/c I knew it was inappropriate, but also b/c I got a panicked reaction from people. Even at 20, freaking the crap out of my Mom was a thrill, the kind I thought I'd lost after failing to let go of the tow rope when I wiped out water skiing for the first time. As that boat yanked my ski-less 45 lb. body around Lake Booby-kaka (who remembers the name of every lake in Wisconsin or Indiana?), Mom watched, helpless. Now this time it was her 100 lb. daughter flirting with diving out of the safest car manufactured in the world.
Most of my memories of the wisdom tooth frolic of '94 are fuzzy, very fuzzy. But my favorite is the one that Mom chose to haunt me with for the duration of my recovery. She begged me to stop talking, b/c when I did, I drooled blood and I guess that's gross. She insisted that I shut my vascular mouth and try writing things down as an alternate method of communication. When I reluctantly agreed, I snatched a pen and paper and jotted down a quick request:
Mom, you grew up in the 60s, you were cool once, where can we get more of this stuff?
The stuff I was refering to must have been the drugs that I'd begun to come down from, because, like a latent junkie, I tried to flatter and cadjole her into feeding my monkey.
For the next week, whenever I'd wince in pain or behave like a wuss, I'd get the 'you were cool' note shoved in front of my swollen jaw. Worse than that was getting my stitches checked at the Dr.'s office. Everyone remembered me well, the 'let's get a drink' girl. Apparently I was a delightful change of pace b/c most girls wake up from the dope crying like, well, girls. The entire office staff smiled at me and rolled their eyes like they'd seen me tap dance naked across Lake Michigan while they politely observed, "You put on quite a show."
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