At almost twenty-two, a recent college graduate with a BA in history, I figured that I would teach high school history for a year or two until I figured out what I really wanted to do, other than write, which I believed was not a way to make a living. I had heard that, at best, a writer could expect to be appreciated after death, which was not much help in practical matters prior to one’s demise. Unfortunately, and without the convenience of connections, I graduated into a recession during which there was a glut of secondary teachers in history, so my teaching plans didn’t work out.

      Instead, just after my twenty-second birthday, I started a job as a secretary in the theater department at Boston University.  I hated the indignity of my job. The chairman of the theater department used pencils he had made and engraved specially for him. Heaven forbid that I should accidentally walk off with one of his pencils! He would follow me, stand over my desk, and demand, "Read that pencil!"
 
      At first obligingly, later with embarrassment, and , finally, with suppressed rage, I would read aloud the words "Property of Mr. Law."

      At that  point, he would grab the pencil from my hand, saying, "Thank you!" He'd then walk crisply and triumphantly back to his over-sized office, proudly bearing his ridiculous little pencil.

      I frantically applied to graduate schools for programs in Russian history, meanwhile taking up study of the Russian language.  Why Russian history was simple; I loved Russian novels, had fallen in love with the movie "Dr Zhivago," and had flirted with radical politics while in college, during which time I had learned a lot about the Russian Revolution. But why graduate school? I imagined that I could figure out, while in graduate school, or perhaps while teaching Russian history in some college, what it was that I really wanted to do, other than write, which seemed totally impractical for earning a living. Either way, it would beat working as a secretary in the theater school, where I spent most of my time pining for my college days.

      At home, I chafed under the more frequent parental scrutiny that moving back home had prompted, or so it seemed to my twenty-something sensibilities. My mother asking, "How are you?" began to feel oppressive. I was lonely too, missing my college friends, who seemed scattered to the winds. Phone calls and letters just weren’t doing it for me.

      As if that weren't bad enough, when I went for a routine visit, my dentist referred me to an oral surgeon about my wisdom teeth. My mother made an appointment for me to see a doctor at an excellent Boston hospital. Despite the fact that I hated going to the doctor, I was looking forward to this appointment. I had worked at this particular hospital during the summers while I'd been in college. Unlike my theater school job, my job there had been fun. It would be great to be back there.

      Or so I thought.

      But when I got to the appointment, the oral surgeon told me that my wisdom teeth definitely needed to be removed. Badly impacted, he said. What's more, he assured me that if I didn't act soon, the chances were that I'd wake up some weekend night in absolutely agonizing pain, and there would be nothing I could do except suffer through it until Monday morning. Shocked, I agreed to have my wisdom teeth out. His office quickly scheduled me for inpatient surgery to take place six weeks later. I would come in one afternoon, go through whatever testing was necessary and stay the night at the hospital. The next morning, under general anesthesia, I’d have all four impacted wisdom teeth yanked. Then I’d recuperate for twenty-four hours or so, before  going home.

      Surgery! I had never had surgery! I walked out of the doctor’s office in a daze.

      When I told my parents, they were very pleased that everything would be done at such a top-notch hospital. They also pointed out to me that medical insurance would cover the whole procedure, with no out-of-pocket expenses. I was less enthusiastic than they. To tell the truth, I'm not a good patient. I'm usually healthy, and I stay as far away from doctors as possible. I don’t trust them. I generally believe that I can handle my health on my own, thank you very much, without need for the tests, procedures and medicines doctors are always suggesting. I certainly didn't want to go to the hospital.

        Yet there was the matter of that horrible predicted pain, waking me up in agony in the middle of the night, rendering me helpless for hours, or even days! It seemed I had no choice but to go ahead and have my wisdom teeth removed. Still, with six weeks to think about it before the whole matter was done, I was left wondering: what if the excruciating pain started early? Or what if there were some problem during surgery? What if I was allergic to something? What if they got me confused with some other patient and did the wrong surgery on me?  When I let myself think about it, I was scared to death!

      My usual way of dealing with worries was to read, study and learn. So in my spare time on public transportation on the way to work, I read first, War and Peace, then Anna Karenina, after which I moved on to Dostoevsky. Evenings and weekends, when I wasn't otherwise occupied, I studied introductory Russian. I concentrated so thoroughly that I put the matter of my wisdom teeth totally out of my head, except for those late night moments when I was trying to get to sleep and found myself instead assessing whether I was feeling a twinge of pain yet. If worse came to worst, though, I just pulled out my Russian textbook, and did some late night studying until I was so tired I could no longer keep my eyes open. 

      Time passed, and I finally was admitted to the hospital for my oral surgery. I was assigned a bed in a room with three other patients, all older women who wondered why someone so young and healthy-looking as myself would ever need to be staying overnight in the hospital. Looking up from my Russian textbook, I explained about my wisdom teeth.

      I should have kept my mouth shut.

      Those three women spent the entire evening telling me horrible stories about their friends, cousins, children, neighbors, and neighbors’ friends, cousins and children who had all suffered excruciating pain – as a RESULT of having their wisdom teeth removed! I was shaken, but I tried to put it out of my mind by throwing myself into my Russian studies with renewed fervor. And it worked. When I studied Russian, I didn't even think about wisdom teeth or surgery or general anesthesia. I was calm, I was under control, I was feeling great . . . about Russian. And I wasn't giving any thought at all to my teeth, except for when those mean women insisted on talking about things like dry sockets, infections, and excruciating pain AFTER surgery.

      By the next morning, I’d worked through all the exercises in two new chapters of my introductory Russian text; in fact, I’d done them twice.  I had also convinced myself that I'd sail through the whole hospital experience with flying colors – and my Russian text book.

      That's when they came in to give me a shot. "Just to relax you," the nurse said.

      That seemed benign. Relaxing would be good. But soon after the relaxing injection, my eyes wouldn't focus right. I couldn't read anymore. I couldn’t even recite my new Russian vocabulary words to myself, let along conjugate a verb, because my concentration was shot. There was nothing left to do but to lie there and think all the thoughts I had been avoiding for six weeks. And according to my hospital roomies, there would be excruciating pain no matter what I did! I skipped right through mild worry, and, by the time two nurses came to wheel me down to surgery, I was in full panic.
   
      Strapped to a gurney, I looked up in terror at the faces of those two nurses, and I  suddenly realized, I didn't have to go through with it! "Excuse me," I said politely, "but I've decided not to have this surgery done after all. Please take me back to my room."

      "Don't worry," one woman said. "You'll be fine."

      "I know I'll be fine," I said. "I'm not going to have the surgery!"

      "It's all right," the other woman said. "They'll take good care of you."

      "You don't understand," I insisted. "This is elective surgery, and I am electing not to have it!" Despite my fiercest protestations, they deposited me on the surgical floor, after giving me another round of the same pseudo-soothing, patronizing comments they'd been making in the elevator.

      I didn't like it one bit, and I was wondering how I could manage to escape.

      A man wearing a surgical mask appeared above me and asked how I was.

      "Who are you?" I demanded.

      "I'm your anesthesiologist," he said.

      "Oh, no, you’re not!" I said. "I met my anesthesiologist last night, and no way are you the same guy!"

      "You're right," he agreed. "But that doctor was called in on an emergency this morning, and I'm taking his place."

      "Great!" I said. "Then I'm getting second best?"

      He didn't want to argue, though, and disappeared. A few minutes later, two other masked figures came into view. "Give me your hand," one said. "I'm going to start your IV."

      "I'm not having surgery," I insisted.

      "No, it'll be fine," he said. "Just give me your hand."

      I may not have been seeing too well, but it was clear that these two idiots weren't going to help me get back to my room either. They were all in league with the doctors. "NO!" I insisted, and I wedged my hands under my behind.

      Their pitiful attempts at persuasion didn't work on me, so one of the masked men pulled on one of my arms until he got my hand free, and then he tried to insert the IV. Unfortunately for him, he had chosen the wrong arm.

      “I'm not getting a good vein here," he said. "Give me your other hand."

      "NO!" I said. "You had your chance!"

      He had to wrestle me for the other arm, but he finally won out, and was able to insert an IV.

      At that point, I was more angry than scared. These people were forcing surgery upon me against my will, and I was going to fight them every way that I could!

      Another masked figure appeared, claiming to be my doctor. Before I had a chance to tell him anything, some unseen person said, "We need to put her out fast!"

      The doctor pushed some powder into my nose. "Inhale," he instructed.

      I opened my mouth and breathed in.

      "Through your nose," he said.

      "No!"

      “It’s O.K. Just breathe,” he said.

      “What is that stuff?” I demanded.

      Suddenly the sneaky devil covered my mouth. I couldn't get air without breathing through my nose, so I finally had to give in. The last thing I saw was the shine of the light on the ceiling of the operating room as they pushed my gurney through the open door.

      Later, I can’t say exactly when, I woke up. I looked around warily. I was in a big room, and there were other patients around me, all lying on other gurneys, seemingly unconscious. Two nurses talked quietly together. I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep as they neared me. I didn't want them to realize that I was on to them. I heard some murmurings about sinus rhythms and decided to look that up later so they wouldn’t be able to put anything over on me.

      But maybe they were nice nurses. They hadn't done anything mean to me . . . yet.

      I decided to test them.

      "I'm cold," I said. It was true.

      They immediately got pre-warmed blankets, spreading them over me and tucking me in to bed as snugly as my parents had when I was little.

      It felt so good! These were nice nurses! At last there were a few people I could trust!

      I don’t remember them taking me back to my room. For the rest of the day, I was groggy, waking and nodding off, sore some of  the time, in a peaceful, comforting la-la land for the rest. A college roommate came to visit. My mother drifted in and out. My father came. I might have seen some of my brothers too, but it was hard to be sure.  If those mean old women in my room said anything to me, I don’t think I even heard them.

      On the next morning, my doctor stopped in. Remembering my antics of the day before, I apologized.

      "Paradoxical response to medication," he explained. "Don't worry about it."

      Shortly after, I went home to salt-water gargles, soft foods and some pain medication. I camped out on our couch, trying to divert myself with old Laurel and Hardy movies, but it hurt to laugh. I stayed out of work from my dreadful job for an entire week, and then went back to finish out the rest of one year of employment there.

      The next fall I moved to Philadelphia. I gave up Russian and Russian history and worked two more years at a new job I also hated. Eventually I found my way to graduate school, though not in Russian.
 
      And since having my wisdom teeth removed,  I have always, always, resolutely avoided relaxing medications of every sort, except in the most dire of circumstances.

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