All Because I Brushed My Teeth

Hey! 

Four months, no see?

Just kidding. 

I have been out and about for a while, and when I finally came back and settled in, I just got too lazy, or should I say creatively unmotivated, to journal. 

The last time we caught up was in February, and honestly, I have been a bit under the weather for the past couple of months. Speaking of which, I recently went through my life's second operation, and it was for the most ridiculous reason. 

Before that, let me ask you a question,

"Have you ever paid the price of doing something right ?"

Because that's where my story begins.

I have, quite literally, become the victim of maintaining basic oral hygiene.

Like most people trying to maintain good oral hygiene, I brushed my teeth diligently. Unfortunately, I took that commitment a little too seriously. 

Brushing your teeth is good, but things took an awry turn when I brushed too hard, especially with a hand as steady as Ross Geller's marriages. (I'm assuming you have watched Friends) 

That being said, a simple whack to the sides of the mouth doesn't seem like a thing to worry about. 

But what if it happened a couple of thousand times? 

Nah! C'mon, it's just a few thousand smacks to the fleshy sides of the mouth. 

What bad could happen that a few days of ignoring can't solve? 

Well, the answer is Ranula! 

Fancy word ?

Don't know what that is? 

Well, Google it. 

Because that's what I did. 

In fact, I only learned about it after spending several weeks pretending the lump in my mouth would magically disappear if I ignored it hard enough.

Only, it didn't. 

But I was still not ready to come face to face with my predicament. 

Denial was free, convenient, and required significantly less effort than scheduling a doctor's appointment.

But my mother and brother weren't ready to share my vision. 

As soon as the secret was out, I was dragged off to get a formal diagnosis for a condition I had already diagnosed myself with. Not that anyone was interested in my professional opinion.

Anyway, I was put under the customary two-week observation period, a timeline I was fully prepared to extend indefinitely.

 But I live in a world where the majority rules. 

And rightly so, they have officially signed the date of my second ruthless dissection. 

And do you know what made it even more interesting? The date itself.

Fate or mere coincidence, the day was Friday the 13th.

So the whole business had "bad omen" written all over it. 

Rightly so. 

What was supposed to be a simple two-day hospital stay and a quicker-than-falling-asleep dissection of the floor of my mouth somehow turned into a three-day ordeal, including a stint in the ICU with me quite literally on the verge of dying.

All because I brushed my teeth.

Remember the question I asked at the beginning?

Have you ever paid the price for doing something right?

Well, I have.

It cost me a surgery, a near-death experience in the ICU, a few weeks of discomfort, and a story ridiculous enough to tell for the rest of my life.

On the bright side, the post-op liquid diet expedited the weight loss I had been meaning to start for the last year and a half.

At least, that's the version of the story I tell myself.

The actual explanation is considerably more complicated and significantly less flattering.

Because while the surgery itself was routine, what happened afterward was anything but.

Read more The Road Without a Driver: A Passenger's Nightmare