The Basketball Head Diaries

"No food for 48 hours," there was good reason for this post-oral surgery instruction. The munchies led me to ignore it, and I was about to pay a horrific, 3 month, self-inflicted price.

They say confession is good for the soul.  Depending on how dumb the mistake, it can take some time before a confession is possible.  I couldn’t admit the following story to another soul for 20 years.  Ever wake up in the morning to discover your normal, gorgeous face has ballooned into the size of a basketball?  Not pleasant.  One of the bigger surprises you can wake up to, if we’re talking mirror surprises.  The unpleasantries were only beginning.  12 weeks of rinse and repeat hell were to follow.  If you are eating, or just finished, I don’t recommend reading this story. 

When I looked in the mirror, I immediately recognized the problem.  My little brother Hambo exited the shower.  Getting his first  glimpse.  He didn’t hold back.  “Duuuuude, holy s**t.  That is huge!  Heinous as my hairy anus!”  “Hambo, language,” Mom yelled from the hallway.  “Ewww, Matty, what happened to you?  Have you been in a fight?  That’s, uh, huge!”  She was alarmed in the extreme.  I said nothing, continuing to poke and prod the massive growth protruding from the right side of my jaw.  “How is that even possible?  Without exploding or something,” Hambo said what we were all thinking.  It did seem physiologically impossible.  To this day I regret not taking a photo.  Five opportunities to do so, and I didn’t take one.  Eyewitnesses only, unlike the photos recording my severed fingers that same year.  If I posted a basketball head photo online, the only response would be ‘CGI’ or ‘fake’.”    

“Matty stop touching it,” Mom advised.  She was talking to the dude so devoid of impulse control, I willingly put my finger under the needle of Mom’s electric sewing machine, and floored the throttle pedal.  Knowing full well the speed and torque of that needle under full power.  It punched through my index finger’s nail,  3/4 of the way in, then the finger violently bounced up and down, until finally coming to a stop.  Don’t poke or prod the enormous lump forming my basketball head?  Not even an option. Gentle pushing yielded no result.  “Hambo, come here,” I said shutting the bathroom door.  “Matty?”  “Mom, it’s okay.  It’s grody, you don’t need to see this.  I’ll be right out.”   

“Dude, you are so gonna pop that sumbitch aren’t you?  Haha.  I don’t even need to ask, grossest kid,” Hambo reminding me of my nickname.  I put my elbow against the wall for maximum torque and really leaned into it.  Hambo scampered to the back corner of the bathroom.  Correctly estimating that whatever was inside there, had to go somewhere when it came out.  One big final push, “woooosh, squirt,” A super-soaker water gun sound effect, as the disgustingly stanky pus squirted all over the mirror.  Filling my mouth and dribbling down my face into the sink and counter. 

“Ewwwww.  Dude, it stinks. It stinks, oh I’m gonna puke,” Hambo sprinted to the toilet.  He wasn’t wrong.  It stank.  And it tasted far worse than the odor.  He began dry heaving, then turned and ran out.  “Dude, I can’t take that smell.”  As the rancid pus dribbled down my throat, I took his place at the toilet.  No dry heaving for me.  I hurled repeatedly.  “Matty, are you okay,” Mom asked, overhearing the drama from outside.  Nothing I did could escape the taste, and smell.  I began scooping water from the other sink into my mouth.  Then, rinsing with mouthwash.  Over and over. 

The weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth drew the attention of my older brother, Willie.  He opened the door.  Seeing the carnage, and taking a whiff, he didn’t hang around.  “Mom, do not go in there.  Come here.  He’ll be done soon.  Maybe, ha,” as he took my Mom by the elbow.  “Matty, what is that?  What the hell is that smell?”  Will asked.  From a safe standoff distance, Mom’s inquires repeated Will’s.  I couldn’t respond, I was trying to keep myself from going full Exorcist-style high velocity yack all over the already soiled mirror.  “Dude, he popped that sucker.  Haha, it was freaking awesome,” Hambo color commentated the scene to Mom and Willie.  In a lowered voice, Mom admitted, “Ohh my, I can smell it even with the door shut.”

This all began two weeks before.  In preparation for my Mormon Mission to Japan, I had to have my wisdom teeth removed.  The Friday I had them removed, my parents were out of town.  It was only Hambo and I, and he was out with friends.  With ample oxycodone onboard, Augie, my best friend, also made a donation.  He stopped by around 8pm.  I was laying on the couch in pain.  The anesthetic shots having completely worn off. “Dude, you look like s**t. Abso-f*****g-lutely miserable.”  “Yeah, there were complications.  The longer it went, the more I became convinced the Doc didn’t know his a*s from his elbow.  He jackhammered and yanked on me for hours.  When the dentist starts asking what to do to the nurse, it’s not a good sign.”  “Oh dude, I’m sorry man.  Well, don’t talk.  Here, I brought you some kind bowlage.  Just return the pipe tomorrow.” 

“Dude, I can’t eat anything.  Chicken soup is all I can eat.  The last thing I need is a gnar gnar case of the munchies.”   “Ha, yeah. Well, it will help with the pain though.  You already look crosseyed and painless from the pain pills.  But, hey, every little bit helps.  Well, I guess it’s ‘break glass in case of emergency’ type deal.  Just don’t eat anything.  Drink alot of soup and s**t.  Do I need to take your car keys?”  “No, dude, I’m not going anywhere.”   “Okay, call me if you need me.  I can hold you close all night, like we used to do,” his smart a*s line did bring a smile. 

I took two more oxycodone.  I was still miserable.  All that extra scraping and pry bar action, I was feeling all of it.  “F**k it,” I said. I snuck into the backyard and start taking pull after pull on Augie’s donation.  I immediately felt better.  Reentering the house, I started wondering if Augie should have taken my keys.  Pain and nausea was replaced with the urge to hit Burger King and order two of everything on the menu. 

My attempt at restraint lasted all of five minutes.  Restraint has never been my strong suit.  The munchies were driving the ship at this point.  I stared into the open fridge.  Nothing.  Next, the pantry.  Scanning top to bottom, front to back.  At first, it looked like no dice.  Then, along the back row. Angelic choirs and a spotlight from on high illuminated what seemed the best possible option known to humankind.  Not just one, but two. Macaroni and Cheese, and the San Francisco treat.  Rice-a-Roni.  Mmm, good eats y’all.  “F**k it,” I said aloud.  It could have been Ribeye and Lobster and it wouldn’t have triggered such excitement. 

I sprang into action.  Lest anyone return home and attempt to foil my forbidden feast.  I went to work on the Mac and Chee first.  Devouring it like a starving jackal.  Greedily stuffing it into my pie-hole, consequences-be-damned.  Grande scoop after scoop.  Next, Rice-a-Roni.  Num, num, num.  Tasty.  I quickly destroyed all evidence of my meal.  Ripping up the boxes and hiding it deep in the trash can in the garage, as if covering up a crime.  I did experience a bit of buyers remorse.  As  I melted into the couch, it did cross my mind.  Is there anything more ridiculously stupid I could have eaten than rice?  The little bits, sure to enter the recently stitched incisions inside my mouth.  Only 6 hours after the oral surgery procedure had gone wrong from the beginning.  My doubts continued as I felt straggler rice grains in and around the incisions.  I attempted to remove them from the incision openings with my tongue.  I tried to rinse and repeat with the mouthwash the Doctor had provided.  “That oughta take care of any straggler bits and pieces,” I reasoned.  Knowing I was lying to myself. 

One week past, no problemo.  Week two, all good.  Then, on the fifteenth day, s**t went all wrong.  The stanking pus explosion incident.  I worried the other incisions were also a ticking time bomb.  They were.  Over, and over, and over.  On my visit to the dentist that day, I learned a very unfortunate biological fact.  Infection changes the ph of the human body. The injections that so effectively numb the mouth, lose over 80% of their efficacy in areas of severe infection.  In my opinion, it was 100%. 

The dentist was sweating bullets.  As he explained the problem, then began his work, large beads of  sweat ran down his face.  Anxiety shown on his face. “Wipe, wipe, wipe,” he kept requesting of his nurse. I don’t know he breathed through his nose-bush of hair.  He had take the scalpel and reopen the incision. The infection was deep down in the tissue at the base the jawbone.  I didn’t utter a noise as I clawed the leather handles of the chair.  There was one bit of help.  “Doc, turn it up. All the way,” I demanded of the nitrous oxide.  Laughing gas.  However, nobody was laughing as he muscled through, scraping the jawbone violently.  Trying to remove very bit of infection before it got into the bone and they had to remove my entire face. 

The look of pity on that poor nurses face.  I felt so bad for her.  I felt bad for the doctor.  The scraping noise was so loud, it felt like I was hearing it via noise canceling headphones cranked to 11. 

I wasn’t saying anything, but the extreme acuity of the pain in that area caused my eyes to water nonstop.  I would fully admit if I was crying, I wanted to, but it was simply a biological reaction.  He paused to re-administer another dozen or so anesthetic shots.  Even the damn shots hurt like hell, with every nerve in the vicinity ready to spontaneously combust into open flame.  All I could do was hang on.  Hang on, battle the urge to murder the cats on the posters.  Playing with balls of yarn and too cute sayings, or majestic nature photos with inspirational slogans. “Hope: When it all seems lost, the brightest sunshine appears and melts away the darkness, revealing the abundant blessings of life.”   

I felt more like: “Hope: You better f*****g hope this is over soon, before I take that scalpel and decapitate ever m**********r in this entire building.”  “Haha,” I said aloud at my altered version.  Doc and the nurse froze. “Matty?  Are you okay?”   “Kind of.”  “Is the gas too high?”  “No, crank it.”  The unexpected single laugh caught them off guard.  “You nee bewaa postaas”  “What?”  “You nee betta postuhs.”  They looked at each other, clueless what I was mumbling about. 

The doc began apologizing profusely.  Not for the posters.  “Matty, okay, it’s gonna get tougher before we are finished.  Umkay. That just means it’s almost over.”  He wasn’t kidding.  He began positioning himself for maximum torque and grip, and really began scraping the fetid nastiness from the base of my jawbone.  A familiar smell was misting everywhere as the nurse sprayed and sucked the infected pus from the wound.  “Sorry about the smell,” Doc said.  I wanted to say “You are sorry?  Just shut-up and finish already.”  

 

This was only the beginning.  It happened 4 more times.  Both sides. Basketball head, over and over.  After the second or third time I wised up and stopped popping the basketball.  The medical means of draining it was far less disgusting, and messy.  I did take full advantage of the Oxycodone connection.  Guilt is a powerful motivator.  On the fifth time, the dentist gave me some advice that would later enrage me.  Especially after meeting with the new doctor.  An Oral Surgeon.  So much for doctors having each others back.  The two doctors even knew each other.  Their sons playing on the same competitive league football team for years. 

“That’s almost criminal what he did to you Matty.  The first damn time this became infected, he should have sent you to me.  Any oral surgeon.  I can’t believe you let a dentist take your wisdom teeth out!  Especially that dentist.”  Of course, I didn’t confess my day-of Rice-a-Roni feast, but he was repeatedly quite harsh regarding the dentist.  “An oral surgeon has the proper training to remove wisdom teeth.  In the proper setting.  We put you completely under.  The first time this became infected, you should have been referred here.  Him scraping your jawbone with nothing but worthless lidocaine injections is borderline criminal.  I’m so sorry you were unnecessarily put through such pain.  I have no idea how you tolerated that even one time.  It’s just not right.  And I’m gonna say so to the good dentist.”  

What the hell did we know.  I don’t know why the dentist repeatedly did the procedure with ineffective anesthesia.  The dentist didn’t have the credentials or equipment for general anesthesia.  I don’t know if he thought it was his fault and didn’t want another doctor cleaning up his mess.  If it wasn’t ego, maybe he thought he could handle it.  The fifth infection and procedure was the final one.  Just like he promised.  “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of this.  I guarantee it won’t reinfect.  You’ll be totally asleep and when you wake up, this 3 month nightmare will be over for good. We’ll take care of it all.  I promise.”  

I hoped his confidence was justified.  It was. He gave me a prescription to squirt into the incisions three times daily.  It was getting to the point of delaying or canceling my Mission.  On my followup visit, the Oral Surgeon came clean about the horrifying possibilities if the infections could not be resolved.  I’ve had a dozen surgeries. Numerous injuries and cuts, gashes over the years of BMX and Motorcycle riding.  This, this was a pain far more intense than the others. The 3rd degree burn on my calf, from DeerTeeth pushing over was equal to that pain. My leg burned on the hot exhaust pipe, I had to physically yank it away. Like a band-aid that has become one with a painful scab, times 1000. However, there were no lulls in that agony.  24/7, for a month.  I never saw that dentist again as a patient.  When I ran into him in public, he acted quite pissy with me and my Mother.  As did his wife.  As if I were responsible for the Oral Surgeon’s unfavorable opinion.  I never said a word.  I found their treatment of me thereafter bizarre.  It seriously pissed me off.  I was somehow the a*****e, after all that misery. 

It wasn’t the first time the dentist had behaved petulantly towards me.  5 years earlier, on a scouting trip I experienced one of my severe migraines. Losing vision, numbness and tingling.  Followed by hellish agony.  I could only lay in my tent and moan.  The dentist loudly proclaimed it wasn’t possible a 14 year old suffers from migraines.  That vision or numbness wasn’t a symptom of migraines and I was trying to shirk some responsibility.  “Aspirin is not necessary.”  Thankfully the scoutmaster defied him and gave me two Excedrin.  I was baffled at the time.  Later that night an M.D. father of another scout arrived. 

In front of the Dentist and the group, the doctor confirmed every single symptom I had claimed.  The Doctor wondered aloud, “how the dentist didn’t know that, and that he shouldn’t publicly state his opinion if he didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. Withholding aspirin? Unthinkable.”  The Dentist wasn’t happy.  It’s uncommon for one clinician to publicly dress down another like that.  The Dentist seemingly thought that incident was my fault as well. Yep, part of my grand scheme. Suffer brutal migraines so I can undermine the reputation of clueless dentists.  People are weird.  Overall, the Dentist was a mild-mannered good dude. Good husband, and father, but, certain situations brought out some odd behavior.  I have no idea why he believed only women of a certain age suffered migraines.  Even now, it’s surprising how little is understand about migraines and the torture they bring. 

From initial surgery to the final healing, the Basketball Head Diaries lasted three months.  With weeks in between of little or no pain or swelling.  But, when it did balloon, when I did have the repeated scrapings, it wasn’t something I would wish on my worst enemy.  Once all is well, it became another story for the archives.  More self-inflicted stupidity from wildling youth.  However humiliating or painful, stories are meant to be told.  Until next time, Stay Frosty, Stay Aerodynamic.