My husband is recovering admirably from the extraction of his wisdom teeth.
Why is that when I had my wisdom teeth removed, I was wrecked for, oh, easily a full week? Granted, part of the problem was that I went home and went to bed, but no one had impressed upon me in my post-anaesthetic haze that I should not recline fully, so I awoke an hour or two later with all the blood in my body having rushed directly to my jaw. Not only did my cheeks swell to ungodly proportions, but I was so bruised that I believe my parents discussed, in hushed tones, whether I would ever fully recover.
I spent the next week being spoon-fed yogurt and mashed potatoes and, in one horrifyingly memorable incident, wrestling internally with myself as my stomach -- and my father, gently rubbing my shoulders -- tried to tell me it was all right to throw up, while my brain said LIKE HELL IT IS, IT COULD ONLY BE WORSE THAN HOW I CURRENTLY FEEL.
Jim? Well, he actually didn't keep down all of yesterday's food, but it didn't bother him in the least. He's beyond chipmunk-cheeked, that's for sure, but aside from the occasional dull ache, he feels pretty good. He can't chew, of course, and he's pretty much superglued to his ice-bag, but he's played a fair amount of Lego Star Wars II on the GameCube and re-watched Spider-Man 2 and thinks it's hilarious to document his swelling on the digital camera.
I actually feel kind of useless; here I was all ready, with mushy foods stockpiled to nurse him back to health, and aside from right after the surgery when the remnants of the anaesthesia knocked him for a loop, he's barely needed my help at all.
This bodes ill for when we decide to have children, as clearly he tolerates pain and bodily trauma far better than I. I guess I can consider it payback for giggling when he drooled in the recovery room.