I took him to get his wisdom teeth out.
Before going in he was completely composed — confirmed the parking rate, his insurance card, and whether we should pick up soup on the way home.
He came out with gauze in his mouth, walking like the floor was made of clouds.
The nurse said, "No food until the numbness wears off, and try not to talk much."
He nodded.
Then, in the thirty seconds between the clinic and the elevator, he said seven things.
First: "Who are you."
"I'm your girlfriend."
"Whoa."
Second: "You know, in there, I kept thinking about one thing."
"What thing."
"That soup you made last week."
Things three through six I couldn't make out, because of the gauze.
In the parking garage he held onto the car door, looked at me very seriously, and said,
"I need to tell you something important."
I thought he was proposing.
He said, "When you turn right up there, you can't turn left at that intersection."
He fell asleep on the way home.
That evening, numbness gone, eating his soup, he said,
"Did I say a lot of stupid things this afternoon?"
"Not really."
"Did I mention the soup?"
"You did."
He nodded, took another spoonful, and said, "Good. That one was real."
— Turns out anesthesia doesn't make you say things you don't mean.
It just moves up the schedule.
Best used for: For after taking your partner to the dentist or a minor procedure, and for that specific sweetness of "what they say while loopy is the truest thing they say."
Variations (2)
- Upgrade version: later it was my turn. He says I talked for ten straight minutes in recovery about how we could reorganize our fridge. He says he recorded all of it and refuses to let me watch.
- Short version: still numb, holding the car door, he said very seriously, "I need to tell you something important." I thought he was proposing. He said, "You can't turn left at that intersection."