The morning I went to get my wisdom teeth out, turned out a little differently than expected. First of all the nearest clinic that my insurance would allow be to go to was over an hour away. Secondly, there was blizzard with whiteout conditions the morning of my surgery, so my mother and I had to rent a hotel room the night before in Janesville just to make it to the appointment without ending up in an icy roadside ditch. Of course, given the circumstances, I was bundled up in wool sock, fleece-lined leggings, and my favorite, purple, oversized sweater. No sooner had I taken off my coat, before a nurse whisked me off to the dental suite where the surgery was to be held. The nurse was busily arranging instruments on the other side of the room, when my doctor waltzes in behind me bellowing, “Good morning, sir!” Quickly realizing his mistake once he saw my face, his cheery march became a stumbling shuffle step and he weakly murmured out an, “or ma’am…” Then in an effort to defuse the tension, he grabbed my foot, shook it firmly twice, and then just held it. Held it elevated for about thirty seconds. After this unpleasant greeting, he gently replaced my leg in its original position and left the room without another word. Next, the nurse set me up with my nostril oxygen, blood pressure cup, and oxygen reader before strapping on the laughing gas. To my surprise, I actually starting laughing. At first I tried to suppress it, but I saw there was little point in fighting the giggles, so I succumbed to their ticklish charm. The nurse stopped her rustling and bustling among the various dental and surgical equipment to say, “Stuff makes you laugh donnit?” I thought about this for a while, being drugged and all, and then I replied, “yeah, how stereotypical.” The nurse smiled, but confusion clouded her eyes. Then, her smile dropped and glared sharply at me. She hastily scurried over to unapologetically stab the IV in my arm. Honestly, I didn’t care too much for my word choice myself. Something about it was bothering me, but I couldn’t put my loopy-brained finger on it. However, the very last thought I had before the darkness of unconsciousness consumed me, was that I did not care very much for my doctor or my nurse. I did not like anything about these people and I certainly did not trust them to cut me open and poke around inside me without any witnesses. I honestly debated ripping out my IV and making a run for it. Then things got dark. The next thing I know, I am waking up in a recovery room feeling inexplicably cold. I try to communicate this to the nurse and request a blanket to resolve the matter, but the nurse cuts me off, tells me I should not be speaking, and snippily hands me an ice pack and walks away. The outrage! Here I am freezing, I ask for a blanket, and you give me an ice pack. Drugged me was beside herself. On my way into my mom’s car, I chucked my stupid ice pack on the floor, sat down next to my mom and told her, “I meant cliche, not stereotypical,” and snuggled into my neck pillow where I soon commenced drooling bloodily as I slept.