It was a cold evening. Ominous clouds lounged overhead, threatening to envelop the sleepy town beneath…not that it was much different from most other nights in foggy Daly City. But this night, ah, this night held the honor of being the first, of many nights, when strange tales were told. The clouds seemed an appropriate touch.
“IV Sedation is for pussies. Pussy pussy pussy…”
This was the first of many stories, all speaking of the same journey of a trial, a trial reaching into the extremities of the human body. They say some were not destined to face this challenge; they were not born with the proper instruments that force this battle. Yet others seemingly welcome the fight, relishing a chance to forever banish the anguish of gnashing teeth and crushing gums. Those who accept face violence and blood.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. My task was to chronicle tales of joy and horror from those willing to voice their memories, a pilgrimage spanning nine of months of insurance bureaucracy. First were tales of pain:
“I couldn’t move for a week.”
“I took a few days off work, was on vicodin most of the time.”
Yet many threads a common weave made:
“Yea, I was a bit sore that night. Still managed to go to China Bee for dinner, though.”
“I felt OK afterwards, so I went to work a few hours later. I guess people felt sorry, since my tip jar raneth over that night.”
I was admittedly lost amidst this tapestry of contradictions. And before long, I saw the face of my maestro: Dr. Bennett, “the dentist”. A man aged with the experience of a hundred battles, he silenced the babbling voices of the stories I offered, instead replacing them with a hearty prescription for Tylenol and vitamins. I had one night to prepare.
Those last sips of water, eight hours ere the arranged meeting, tasted especially sweet.
And soon, I was listening to the incessant beeping of an EKG machine, feeling the rhythmic beating of a blood pressure monitor, inhaling the oxygen of, well, an oxygen mask. Strapped to a chair, I was helpless as the needle punctured my skin. The thrill of blood and teeth slowed to a patter, the lights flickered briefly, and I passed out.
I awoke in a stupor, unable to walk straight nor speak with a coherent tongue. The conductor has left the building, but let himself be remembered by the lingering wail of the final note. That is, he left me a paper bag, rattling with the remnants of a legendary battle. It dared me to find a can of coke.
And as I write these final words, I feel compelled to add one more thread for the next warrior, one more story to be told as history, legend, myth:
“Swollen face like a chipmunk, gnawed on jello and gauze.”
wisdum teefs!!