You've got some nerve.

Oh hi.

Me again.

In the words of Grits;
'My life be like oooooh-aaaaah'.

Or Mr Keating himself;
'Life is a rollercoaster, just gotta ride it'.

I've had ups, and I've had downs.

I've got a fun, well-paid job, an ah-maze-ing boyfriend and no more excruciating pain when I eat the tiniest of things. So, you know, pretty darn good. S'abouttimeright.

But after all this time, I hear you ask, why are you blogging again? Life sounds good? What brings you to the 'Tough Luck, Thomo' blog once again?

Well well well, reader. Let me invite you to enjoy my toothy trauma, my dental disaster, my bad luck banter.

Take a seat, get comfortable.

You good? Great. Let us begin.

The tale begins on a dark and rainy Friday evening. Sharp pains shoot up the side of my face. Ouch I think. It carries on. Ouch I say. It continues. Pain killers consumed. The night draws in. Sleep proves difficult, but I make it through. (I'm a trooper, what can I say).

The weekend comes and goes, Sunday night is here. The pain killers are now ineffective and the pain is worse. Oh gosh. 'Call the dentist tomorrow and make an emergency appointment'. Yeah, OK. I think I might.

Monday: 'Can have an emergency appointment?'. 'Yes, in a weeks time'.'Okay, I guess I can wait till then...'
Thank god you aren't part of the fire service, that's all I'll say.

Tuesday: DEAR GOD THE PAIN. Wait, is my face... Yes, yes it is indeed swollen an twice the size. Oh cool, it's down my neck too. Love it. L o v e  it.
I call 111, the emergency dentist number (that exists, who knew! So silver lining, this experience was at least educational). I make an emergency appointment, get X-rays and antibiotics and go on my weary pain-consumed way.

Next Monday: Actual appointment, more antibiotics and told to come back on Wednesday for root canal. My nerve is slowly dying. And why go quietly? You have your moment, nerve. Go out like one of those Samurai warriors in their final moments.
(May I mention here that getting to the dentist should have involved one 25 minute bus and a 10 minute walk. It actually involved one bus driving straight passed me, the next terminating early, three more turning up and terminating early, and then a 15 minute run).

Wednesday: Half a root canal later, I need to make another appointment because my face bled too much to continue. I'll need one for an hour, not just 20 minutes like this one. Ever heard of too much of a good thing? No, guess not. So she fills it with antibiotics (I just can't get enough), seals it with a temporary filling and sends me on my way.

Saturday: On the train home, minding my business. Crack. Saywhaaaaa. Oh cool. Half my tooth. Would you look at that. Brill. Great. Super. Only two weeks until my next appointment. That's nothing...


Karma, what the hell. I walked a blind man to the bank last week. I must have been truly evil in a previous life. #KickAKittenOrTwo

Weather forecast: Swollen with a chance of hideous.

Hayfever, they said. Take these pills, they said. It will all go away, THEY SAID.

They being the doctor and the internet.

'You have what appears to be a severe case of hayfever my dear. Take these pills and use this cream and you'll be fine in a few days'. 

Three months down the line, a desperate phone call to NHS Direct and a trip to the emergency Out Of Hours Doctors later, we've established; this ain't no hayfever. It's extreme eczema caused by weather change. You heard. Weather change.

So basically, my face can be used in place of BBC Weather for real-time temperature and climate information. Talk about a red puffy silver lining!

I like to think that, just like Peter Parker, I have developed my own personal superpower overnight. Screw spidey sense, I can judge humidity. And that's not all. Using words to express information is for boring ordinary people. Get this. Instead, my face will do it for me in the form of puffiness and swelling. If that's not an enviable talent, I don't know what is. 

By now, you're probably shaking with jealousy. Well, let me tell you buddy, it's not a gift to be taken lightly. With great power comes great responsibility. People stop in supermarkets and stare in awe at me*. I'm basically a modern day Prophet. What can I say, I'm blessed.







*N.B. To the wanker in Tesco who asked if I'd 'had a late night', I hope you step on Lego.

Holey hell with a side of puffy.

Gally me, I'm gallbladder free!

So that's the good news. It was all good for the most part (with the odd complication - it just wouldn't have been right had it been as simple as planned), I won't bore you - or perhaps that should be gore you? - with the details. Simply put: doctors 1, gallbladder 0.

So now, three weeks on, we resume regular programming.

You may recall the filling fiasco I had a few posts back involving 8 injections. The one that scarred me for life. But you know that old saying 'face your fears'? Well, my face is about to. Holey hell, as the blog title describes. 20 days from today, just enough time to psych myself up into a frenzy. SUPER. I'm 80% sure that it's the most problematic filling from the trip just gone by that's fallen out. Damn you Uni dentist, damn you.

Anyway, onto the side of puffy.

Hayfever. Need I say more. Perhaps I should. This year, nature has conspired against me. At work on Thursday, my eyes started to feel sore and itchy. 'Get over it Thomo, that happens to us all!' I hear you cry.

Well, fast-forward approximately 12 hours until 3am, and cue waking up to the feeling of my face on fire, and my eyes swollen to double their normal size. And why stop there, the pollen army declared. My mouth and surrounding area transformed into a 'Why so serious' Joker image. If only it was Halloween.

First week of work, and I become Coco the Clown. They say first impressions never last. I bloody hope not.

What a prick.

Thursday:
Pre-op assessment.
Including:
- Health questionnaire (history, allergies, lifestyle etc.)
- Blood pressure and temperature
- B...b...blood tttest.... *sobs uncontrollably*

All for a good cause though. So everyone keeps reminding me, but they're not the one being injected with a sharp piece of metal to extract vials of my blood which should naturally stay inside me.

So after the pressure and temperature tests were done, my history and life assessed ('If you had to walk non-stop on a flat surface, how many miles could you walk?' 'erm...lots?'), the time had arrived.

Off the jumper came, flesh bared. Deep breath. Credit to the lovely nurse, trying to calm me down, but by this time, I was very much a lost cause.

Fast forward 30 minutes, and it was over. Not. 30 minutes later, there had been three different attempts to take blood (the best Doctor in the place called in to 'take a stab at it'), and no blood. Not a drop.

'You might be dehydrated, we can't seem to get any blood out of you. Can you come back Saturday? Make sure you drink a lot!'.

Superb.

Saturday:

2 litres of water inside me, and I was ready. Inject me Nursy Nurse!

Fast forward 20 minutes, three injections later, and we'd filled up half the vials necessary. 'You've got such tiny veins! Try and relax, you've got too much adrenaline and they keep hiding away, it's really difficult to do'.

25 minutes later, three more injections, and we'd filled 4 out of the 6 vials.

They gave up after that.

Given that a syringe had to be used to drag the ever so reluctant blood they did manage to get out of me, it was decided that it just weren't playin'. The last two vials were only needed as a back up anyway, so screw it, they said.

Need(le)less to say, I was fairly delighted.

Superb. Superb times six. Actually superb times nine, including Thursday too. I'm fairly sure if I drank 2 litres of water now, I'd look like some sort of sprinkler given the amount of needle holes in me now.

I just can't wait for Tuesday's operation when they attempt to put the drip in my hand...

However, there is a silver lining to be found here. Heroine addict is off the cards. And I mean, that's always good right?

No doubt the next time I write I will be one organ lighter. So... till next time reader!



P.s. Oh, did I mention I graduated Uni? With a First. Say whatttttt.

Gally me, that's quite a stone!

If I was a top trump card, I think I would be the one people get and sigh.

Oh great, I got Miss. Sicky. You might as well just take her really.
*defeatedly hands over card* 

That being said, I'm not yet dead, so I'd have some pretty narly strength/deathproofability scores.
(Yes, I said narly, and I so pulled it off).

Anyway, several tests later and they have discovered a stowaway in my gallbladder in the form of a gallstone, which is taking up 25% of the space. Talk about greedy!

First it comes along uninvited and then has the nerve to take up a whole heap o' space without any permission at all. The rudeness of it!

So you know what they suggested to get even with the fucker? Remove it you say? No no. That would be tame. We want revenge damn it.

Instead, let's get the bailiffs in and take back it's stolen home by storm. I have termed it 'Operation retrieve gallbladder'. And by retrieve, I mean rip out and throw away. That'll teach the pesky stone once and for all.

Us against it.

And by us, I mean the surgeons who will be hacking me open like a dead animal operating on me in a few weeks time. I won't really have much participation in the whole ordeal other than lying there unconscious. Call me lazy.  

Am I scared? AS IF. I'm pumped to be sliced and diced, and wear that fetching hospital gown again. Blood tests?! GIVE ME TWO. Or not...

Actually, can someone please hold my hand?...

Well, it does keep me busy I suppose? There is also a 70-80% chance of no more excruciating pain after the op. Major plus!

And anyway, I always thought my body:organ ratio was just a tad unbalanced.

Note to self: wear sensible underwear.

Yesterday, I learnt how to make chicken curry, and how to make apple sauce (Not for the same dish I should point out).

After having a lie down to recover from all that excitement, I came to a realisation. Croydon is boring.

There, I said it.

Uni is over, and I'm home. Home, where there's nothing to do. Super duper.

Having ended a relationship with a guy who in all honestly was too good for me, I've realised there really isn't much back home for me. Growing up loving my small sleepy town, it turns out, as a Uni graduate, that really isn't too appealing. Whodaknown ey?

Well, I say nothing, that's a lie. Next week holds a heap of excitement for me. Hospital visits galore and tests a plenty. Welcome home to me...

I figured, go big or go home. From blood tests, to MRI's to ultrasounds, to some weird enzyme test, 'gimme the lot!' I said.

That's a lie. The doctor said 'give her the lot!', I whimpered and mentally broke down. Not that I'm not super excited. Bring on the tests!

Just one thing to remember: hospital gowns are backless... [see post title].

8 injections later...

You know what I love? The rush of adrenaline when a needle pierces through your skin and the intense surge of pain throughout your body that follows.

You know what I actually love? Sarcasm.

1460 days later, and I have now finished University. Woohoo. Well, somewhat premature woohoo because I have to have actually passed my final exams but that's a minor thing. I wanna woohoo and I'm gonna damnit. WOOHOO.

How did I celebrate? A trip to the dentist of course!

Normal celebrations are just so conventional. I love me some local anaesthetic and bright glaring overhead light for mine. Hell to the ye-ahhh. Or more helllb to thbe yebbah. My face is very numb, but I'll get to that.

Four fillings were to be had (what would the tooth-fairy think if she could see me now...).  Like the mature grown-up I have now become after four years at University, I calmly and collectedly walked to the dentist, went in, sat down, and awaited my death by needle and drill appointment entirely unfazed by the whole situation.

'Danielle, would you like to come in? Sorry for the wait'

'HELL FUCKING NO, I CAN THINK OF NOTHING WORSE ACTUALLY  Oh thanks, oh no, I wasn't waiting long at all actually'
*N.B. I may or may not arrived half an hour early which, coincidentally, may or may not be just enough time to completely psych yourself out about something you may or may not be terrified about. 

So down I sat, terrified, on the verge of a breakdown with a happy and carefree heart, lay back and sighed a contented sigh. So this is how I die, I thought. Finally, my teeth would be hole-free.

Anyway, due to being hypermobile, apparently, anaesthetic doesn't always work as well. Turns out, this is not an urban myth, but entirely true.

At this point, I would very much like to thank my nerve endings for taking part in this experiment. However, next time,  it might be nice to be informed that this was taking place. Just an idea, not that I didn't love the unexpected excruciating pain surging through my mouth and face element of surprise.

After fearing the first injection more than just about any horror movie ever made just a tiny bit, by the sixth injection, I was well-versed in what to expect. By the eighth, I was pretty much ready to do them myself.

An hour later, and an extremely numb face, and my teeth are now holey brilliant. Well, unholey brilliant, but that doesn't really work as well...

Iam never ever returning to that sadistic hell-hole ever again t really wasn't as bad as I thought it would be to be fair. Here's hoping I don't give myself a fat lip like the first and only other time I've had a filling...

As I sit here doing goldfish impressions facial exercises to lessen the numbing of my face (Google says it works so it must be true), I have only 3 days left in Bath in the student lifestyle. The real world back at home beckons.

Oh gosh.