Broken Tooth and Shattered Dream: But Really, It Could’ve Been Worse

My last post was a triumphant one, so I feel a little guilty cancelling that out by being a total downer, but, you know. Gotta keep it real. Life is, after all, keeping me on my toes.

I was debating whether or not to write a separate entry about the dental trauma that I experienced last Thursday. Well, “trauma” is maybe a little dramatic, but I’ll go with it.

When you’re already really paranoid about your teeth and, as you start to become more oriented after a tonic-clonic seizure and realize that a huge chunk of a molar is missing, it is, to be honest, kind of trauma-inducing.

I went to my incredible dentist the next day and was told that it was probably fixable with a filling. He didn’t have enough time to do the procedure right away, though, so I spent the weekend with sharp edges in my mouth that cut up my tongue and served as a frequent reminder of the seizure that caused them. But no matter! I could overwork myself all weekend to revise a chapter to hand in to my supervisor on Tuesday anyway! #foreshadowing

On Monday, after an hour in the dental chair, I stood up with a full tooth where half of one used to be. I then went home and freaked out about work. #moreforeshadowing

The next day, I had a successful meeting with my supervisor—yay! But I was also overtired. Self care, as it turns out, is an important aspect of seizure prevention. Who’d’ve thought?

That evening, I had a seizure that was serious enough for Andrew to phone 911.

We left the ER around six in the morning on the condition that we’d follow up with my “neurology team.”

My memories of the episode are scattered but include a clip of one of the paramedics who transported us to the hospital saying to another, while waiting to transfer me to a bed, “I knew I recognized the address, and then I saw them, and I was like, ‘I know you guys!!!'” Apparently we’re becoming famous in the paramedic community! I’m so proud of you, intractable epilepsy. It was also reported to me that while very, very much in the postictal state (and trying to convince them that I was good to stay home), I told the paramedics that in the future, I should confiscate my husband’s phone at bedtime so that he’ll be unable to make a potentially life-saving 911 call if I go into status or whatever, which makes total sense since I hate going to the hospital so passionately. Seizure Me uses amazing logic.

In the end, everything was fine. After sleeping for most of the morning, I felt horrible for forty-eight hours or so, but I managed to remind myself to be grateful for the fact that it could’ve been worse. Because really, it could’ve been. It’s just that I really thought that our days of emergency room visits were over, and this was, in that respect, a tough blow. At least I have an amusing picture to show for this: it seems that my husband’s the one who should be doing the phone-confiscating in such situations.

I took this at five in the morning. I don't recall why it seemed necessary, but I'm sure there was some critical reason that this picture of my feet ended up on phone.
I took this at five in the morning. I don’t recall why it struck me as a necessary shot, but I’m sure there was some critical reason that this picture of my feet ended up on phone.
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