Welcome back, Teeth.

I went to an oral surgeon this morning, excited to hear about what the plan of attack was going to be regarding the un-rearranging of my teeth. Luckily, the Tucson Medical Center, where my ER visit took place, had already sent the doctor's report and CT scan to my soon-to-be-best-friend oral surgeon, so his mind was made up before I even got there.

He starts telling me about how they're going to put me under, move everything back to where it was, put in an arch-something-or-other, to keep it all in the right place that I'll have to wear for six to eight weeks, after which I may need a root canal or two, and possibly some braces. All well and good, I thought. Totally jived with what the dentist at Camp had said when he looked at me the morning after the Teeth Wreck.

So I'm feeling good and looking forward to finding out if this is something that he thinks will take place by the end of the week, or early next.... You know, just want to start getting myself psyched up for it. He goes, "When are we going to do this, you ask? Well right now, of course." Holy shit! Right Now! As in Now, Now? OK. I wasn't ready for that.

I had two things going for me. My wife was by my side (thank you, Denver Public Schools, for closing school today, otherwise she would have been at work). And they were going to put me under to the point where I wouldn't remember a thing.

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I didn't remember a thing.

In October my dad had major arterial surgery—a six hour procedure—after which he said it felt like no time passed between when the anesthesiologist started pumping him full of ga-ga juice and when he awoke from the procedure. Same thing for me, although mine was just an hour long. In fact, when I came to, my first thought was, OK, go ahead and get started already. What? You're done. Oh. Yeah. That explains why I can't feel my face.

When I was laying on the ground, back in Tucson, in right field of Hi Corbett Annex Field 1, I don't remember being blown away by the pain. It was the shock. Then, hours later, the pain really was not excruciating. Even in the ensuing days, the pain never really kicked my ass. In fact, the ER prescribed me Vicodin, but I didn't fill it because Tylenol was keeping it in check. But this surgery business is another deal altogether. What'dya use, doc, a crowbar and sledgehammer? Maybe a wire brush for clean up? Damn my face hurts. That Vicodin script I mentioned earlier? It's filled.

Ahhh, but the teeth have their old addresses back. Looking forward to finally chewing some food, instead of drinking it.

So tomorrow I go see my dentist so he can assess whether my bite needs adjusted (it does, I predict—my teeth may have their old addresses back, but they're not totally moved back in). Anyway, six to eight weeks and I should be pretty much back to normal. As for my future in baseball? Shit yeah. This spring I'm gonna start looking for a men's league. I want to keep playing. I want to go back to the Rockies Fantasy Camp. I want to show those pop flies who's boss.