One of the things I've noticed about getting older is that when illness strikes, it takes so damned long to get well. Colds are particularly irritating. When I was a kid, my mother handed me a couple of packs of tissues, sent me on my way and aside from a runny nose, I hardly noticed it.
For the past decade, probably longer, colds lay me as low as a flu. In fact, I can hardly tell the difference between them. Fortunately, I rarely get a cold.
And so it is with this denture adventure.
There is almost no pain; Tylenol easily handles it. My dentist, in a followup visit yesterday, 24 hours after the extractions, said I'm healing well and gave me a prescription mouth rinse to prevent infection and further speed recovery.
All good news, except that the 20 minute drive to his office, the 15-minute examination and 20 minute drive home with a quick stop at the market exhausted me. I spent most of yesterday napping again.
Now, as I sit here at the keyboard in the in the wee hours before dawn on the third day after the surgery, I'm thinking I need to lie down already. It's even an effort to the feed the cat who, given his yowling, has no sympathy for my condition.
I've had teeth pulled before. It's not pleasant; I recall a couple of days of pain, but not this overwhelming fatigue. It's a good lesson in old age planning: our decades of experience, in this instance, lead to expectations that don't apply anymore. We are not the kids we used to be.
So it was overly ambitious (hubris?) to think I would make the eight or 10 phone calls on my list today to begin lining up the ducks for my move to Oregon. Next time I'll prepare better by lowering my expectations.
I'm going back to bed now.
At The Elder Storytelling Place today, Olga Hebert: Cooking with Gas