I walked in nervous, but prepared.

I decided that laughing gas, on top of the local anesthetic, would be enough. It was that or bring my husband or dad, who could be at home watching the kids, to take several hours out of his day to sit and wait just to drive me home. The surgeon said that either option was fine, and I took the responsible mom route.

But lying there, on the most comfortable dental chair I’ve ever sat in, breathing in the gas that made my whole body warm as he injected shot after shot after shot into my cheeks and the roof of my mouth, nearly sent me over the edge. I started to shake and wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop.

But several minutes by myself, in that well-cushioned chair, waiting for all of those shots to fully take effect, calmed me back down.

The first tooth took the longest, by far, and was the most difficult. With Foster the People coming from my iPod to my ears, I heard noises that I never thought I’d experience coming from my own mouth.

Man, this one’s tough. The tall, blondish, athletic assistant and the upper-middle age surgeon making small talk. Cracking bones. Sawing, Pulling. Tugging, More sawing. More cracking. Pinching and pushing on my very-un-numbed lip. Feeling the pressure and hearing those noises and knowing that the work they’re doing that day will be felt later when the shots wear off, while my imagination went wild trying to picture in my head what was actually happening in my mouth.

I was certain at one point that I would look up and see Steve Martin standing over me.

As the music and the noises and the decisions about tools infiltrated my brain, I silently cursed every dentist that has ever told me that my wisdom teeth were coming, and that someday, they would start to be a problem. That someday was long past as I sat in that chair and spent an hour being tugged at, and assaulted inside my poor, unsuspecting mouth.

Finally, the last glorious stitch was made to close up the last of four holes, and I walked down the hallway. Stopping in the bathroom to pee, I stupidly looked in the mirror to see what the receptionist had seen just moments before. I can never take that back, it was horrifying.

I drove the 40 minutes home, not in any kind of pain, but slightly distracted by the events that had just taken place. I pulled in the driveway and again, looked in the mirror. This time, I saw blood dripping down my very numb face and white t-shirt and desperately searched for a napkin to cover up the pooling blood in my mouth before I walked in the house.

Thankfully, the only child that saw me was the 3 year old, who is apparently not freaked out at all about her mom, the zombie. In fact, she watched as I tried in vain to change the gauze and control the dripping blood. There was panic, on my part, that I wouldn’t be able to get it under control.

And that night, I did run out of the gauze that they gave me, long before the bleeding stopped. I also nearly threw up as I filled the sink with the dark red blood and saliva mixture, and nearly passed out on the bathroom floor. I did pass out as I was going back to bed, and ended up sliding down the stairs, only realizing what had happened as my husband asked if I was okay and I found myself on the first floor of the house. I also nearly slept on the couch as I grew sweaty and woozy on a trip downstairs to get a drink.

As I was leaving the surgeon’s office, he said to me and the assistant, “Greta had some wisdom teeth. Some of the worst I’ve seen, and I’ve been doing this a long time.”

So. Where’s my freaking award??