I know that I should be writing up my wedding about now, but I thought I'd deal with the ugly before I got started with the pretty. I must apologise to the squeamish, as I'm not holding back on the gory details.
On 7 August 2009, exactly one year before our wedding day, I was recovering at home from a wisdom tooth extraction. It had started off pretty normally for dental work - sleepy, swollen and making the most of the pretty, pink ibuprofen pills I'd been given. The extraction itself had been quite unpleasant, with the rude dentist actually yelling at me to open my mouth wider, and telling me not to be so stupid when I said I felt a sharp jab during the procedure, but it had been nice and quick, so I just grumbled to myself that thank heavens that was the last tooth that needed to be removed.
I'd summoned up the strength to walk to the tube station with Patrick, thinking that the fresh air and a bottle of Lucozade would make me feel better. Due to my inability to swallow, I hadn't been able to eat - nor barely drink - anything except for a plate of gnocchi the evening of the extraction, so I was starting to go a little crazy! I made it to the station, but took 30 minutes to walk the half mile back to our flat.
The swallowing thing began to get worse - I had to go to the bathroom every twenty minutes to spit out the saliva that gathered in my mouth. As I hadn't spoken since Wednesday night, I sent the dentist a slightly frantic email (specifying my inability to speak) with the general message of "is this normal?". No response. I forwarded the message again, with "Please can someone contact me. I'm starting to get really worried." Yeah - I'm really embarrassed about that now! They then started to call me - clever.
I decided enough was enough and texted my sister-in-law, asking her to take me to the hospital. She drove me to St George's, Tooting, where I used my handy notepad to explain my situation. An older couple sat opposite us were drinking delicious-looking bottled water and eating sweets, and just watching them actually made me cry - I was so thirsty and weak. I was sent to Radiology for an x-ray - I feel like a bit of a regular there, what with Patrick and his rugby injuries - and they tried to fit my swollen, Coulthardesque face into the machine, but to no avail.
They put in a drip to rehydrate me, but had a little trouble getting it in place, causing my sister-in-law to come over all queasy at the sight of my blood. The doctor came out and explained that the swelling was down to an infection, and that they were going to put in some drains to clear it out. Patrick arrived just in time to give me a last kiss before I headed off into surgery.
Today's photo - a pic of all the girlies at my hen do in April - a fab weekend!!
The surgery and the aftermath!