Retrieved

My mother has been retrieved from the hospital. Her room had a view.

That view was of a cemetery. "They'll be taking me out there in a wheelbarrow if things turn south," she said.

But things went well, she is safely home, and has given me half a bottle of prescription ibuprofen. Because while all this was happening, I took a sip of coffee and the lovely hot liquid triggered some sort of explosion in my teeth. I sat with my forehead thunked onto the dining table, weeping, until the kids poked me with a fork. My dentist has an ongoing grudge against my wisdom teeth, and sent me to a specialist to finally have them cut out. The specialist, who apparently minored in odontological divination, told me that I was just going through a stressful life event and had ground my teeth until I traumatized the ligaments. I was told that for the next 3 months (WHAT) I need to eat soft, tepid foods, load up on pain killers, stop clipping my bottom tooth against my top tooth when I speak, and get a $750 bite guard. No. My budget is limited to pilfering drugs from surgical patients right now, I explained.

Tho I haf been tryi'g to keep my teeth from clicking - with ith making me thound like a thwee yeaw old - when Unchained Melody came on the radio, and I started singing along at top yowl (because the meds had kicked in) and I sprained my fucking philtrom. Which is a thing that you can do, evidently. 

So the word on my mother's surgery is that my face is broken. 

And that is why I am not a reporter.