By the time you read this, I will look like an unconscious chipmunk.

Well, maybe. By the time you read this I will be recovering from surgery.

I’m getting my wisdom teeth removed and I am pretty nervous about it. I have never had surgery. While I should be doing everything in my power to enjoy my final days before the extraction, I am instead doing everything in my power to freak myself out.

Even before I finally got the courage to see an oral surgeon, because, well, my teeth felt ouch-y, I would spend a good deal of time perusing the Internet for every possible thing that might go wrong.

For example: “Hmmm, my teeth could be impacted, which might mean that there is a giant infection in my jaw, which may spread down my body into my foot and my foot will have to be removed.”

And I like my feet. They’ve done a lot for me. So, I went to a doctor.

Of course, once I got myself X-rayed, I learned things were fine and I felt reasonably confident about my surgery. Then the horror stories began.

For the past few weeks, friends and family have made it their duty to regale me with tales of dentistry horror.

Example: “Yeah, they thought it was going to be a routine extraction, but then they had to break his jaw and shatter his teeth.”

What kind of people are these oral surgeons? Exploding teeth with, I don’t know, really tiny pieces of dynamite, and breaking jaws? And we pay them to do this?

There’s also: “Watch out, dude, ‘cause your dentist might touch that nerve, and then you’ll lose all feeling in your face. For life.”

Wonderful. I could very well end up being called Sloppy-Faced-Numb-Girl for the rest of my life.

But my favorite piece of wisdom-tooth-lore would have to be: “Oh, Kat. You’ll be fine. Just. Don’t. Get. DRY SOCKETS!”

Yes, there has never been a more terrifying combination of words in the world of dentistry. “Dry sockets.” It even sounds gnarly. Now, I’m not sure what these “dry sockets” are, but apparently, they’re pretty bad, and I don’t want to get them.

But that’s not what really scares me.

To paraphrase my surgeon, millions of wisdom teeth are removed every year. The extraction of wisdom teeth, or in Latin, den molaris tertius, dens serotinus, (Thank you, Google!) is a commonplace procedure.

Regardless of how many people get their wisdom teeth removed, regardless of how many people I know who no longer have their wisdom teeth, I will be going through this surgery alone.

True, my mother is coming into town to drive me to and from my gauze-filled appointment, and my sister has sworn to rent every Robert Downey Jr. movie known to man and to spoon-feed me applesauce, but it is I who will have to go under the knife, or rather, bone drill. I am the one experiencing it. And that’s a little spooky.

Usually when a person has to do something unpleasant they have the option of bringing someone along for the ride. It isn’t necessarily about “misery loves company.” It’s more about comfort. You might invite a friend on a cumbersome double date or to a party where you don’t know anyone.

I, however, cannot invite a single friend to undergo anesthesia with me. It also doesn’t help that I am a complete wimp. It also probably doesn’t help that I have received testimonials on every possible thing that could go wrong.

However, I like to dramatize, albeit, humorously, the details of my surgery because sometimes it is better to imagine the bad things that could happen, and laugh about them, than actually be afraid. Because I am nervous about sitting down in that squishy dentist chair by myself, joking about it or venting my worries actually makes me feel better and allows me to go through with the surgery feeling somewhat brave.

I know that in the realm of health problems, getting one’s wisdom teeth removed isn’t a big deal. I’ll be fine. I’ll look like a hamster, but I’ll be fine.

Plus, I’m not really alone. I have my mom, my sister and my friends, who, hopefully, will be bringing me lots of smoothies. Hint, hint.