ANTI-WISDOM TEETH

I am in, what my dentist calls, prime time for wisdom teeth. Which, ironically, means that I HAVE A WISDOM PROBLEM. Yes, I am indeed just the right amount of wise for my age and therefore must have a good portion of it removed. This surgery will bring about the humbling of my attitude, some jaw pain, puffy cheeks, and a drug that will make me feel high during the surgery and promptly forget everything afterwards.

I blame america’s meat industry for my throbbing mouth today. It was Sunday night and there I was, just chewing on some yummy t-bone steak (Something I don’t do unless I know exactly where it came from and the way in which it was manufactured), when suddenly I felt a sharp pain in the very back of my mouth, on the inside of my jaw. I kept chewing, because it was tasty. When my family goes out of town I like to treat myself to something that I spend a lot of time cooking. I marinated the steak all night, seasoned it just before grilling, and made Roquefort sauce to drizzle over the top when finished. It was perfection.

First bite, tear.

The thin layer of gum covering my top right wisdom tooth tore back to reveal a young and quite angry chunk of white enamel. This tooth had a mission to destroy my enjoyment of this 12 dollar steak and I wasn’t about to let it happen. I finished my perfect meal and went to bed.

The next morning I felt the pain. I opened my mouth to brush my teeth and realized that I couldn’t open it even an inch to allow the toothbrush full access to my teeth. My entire jaw, face, and neck throbbed with pain.

I ignored it. I ignored it for two whole days, until I got so hungry that I felt I must mention it to my grandmother who promptly made me a dentist appointment. As I was waiting in the lounge, skimming through an IKEA catalogue, I thought about the first time I ever had a serious dental procedure.

I was 6 years old and my dentist, who we later found to be a total quack, told me, despite my assurance that I was in a great deal of pain, that I had nothing to worry about. “Your teeth are beautiful and strong,” he told me, the lying prick. My mother and I had a long conversation about the pain in my teeth and she decided to schedule me an appointment with another dentist out in Savoy. He counted 8 cavaties right off the bat: “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, … 6, 7, …. And 8, You’ve got 8 cavaties my dear! Care to describe, in detail, just how much candy you’ve eaten since your last dentist appointment? Do you brush your teeth any more than once a week? Have you ever brushed your teeth?” Then he looked a my mother. He gave her a look that said a lot more than the onslaught of questions he had just thrown at me, it said, “You ought to be ashamed of yourself… letting a six year old child ruin her teeth like this. Tsk tsk tsk.”

I’m sure my mother explained to him the whole ordeal with my other dentist because then quickly arranged for me to get fillings and sealants on a good portion of my teeth. This was going to take 12-14 hours total and they were only going to split it up between two days.

Day 1: I sat in the chair, pumped with laughing gas, and tried to suppress my giggles as the “tickly” tools, like knives, pliers, and clamps mutilated my mouth.

Day 2: Not enough laughing gas. I begged them to stop as they pried, pulled, sliced, drilled, and filled. Or at least… I thought I was asking them to stop. I was under serious influences… my head felt light and my father said it was the closest thing I was ever going to be to getting drunk until AFTER I was 21. He made that very clear and then laughed. It was the most pain I can ever remember experiencing. The bones in my face felt like they were getting ready to explode and the holes in my teeth were rattling my brain to the point that I could no longer see straight.

I’m shaken from my reverie because I realize that I’m about to be encountered with an even more painful surgery, one in which surgeons in white scrubs will slice away at my gums, pry at my jaw, and yank out my young wisdom teeth. I will be under some sort of local anesthesia, enough to make me “forget” most of the procedure and still be conscious enough to obey commands and adjustments.

So next Friday, the day after my birthday, I’m going to “get high” with a few oral surgeons and consciously witness my four most deeply rooted teeth getting yanked out of my mouth. It’ll be fun!

Anyone have any suggestions or stories they’d like to share about getting their wisdom teeth pulled? I kinda like scary/nasty stories… it makes this whole thing seem like more of an adventure!

My (wannabe) Harry Potter Scar

The tiny pink scar in the center of my forehead has a special story behind it, one that I proudly remember as the most ridiculous of my life.

It all started one cold rainy evening, the premier of Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. I was a giddy 10 year old who was much too ecstatic to be trusted with any regular daily responsibilities. After all, Legolas, my imaginary elvin lover, would return (complete with shiny long blonde hair and intense action-packed archery moves) and continue to haunt both my day and nighttime dreams. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, to get in the way of this beautiful evening.

My brother and I shoved our most comfy sweatshirts over our necks and pushed for our parents to finished getting dressed so that we could ‘leave already!!’ My dad slowly tied his shoes and grinned as he looked up and told us to go brush out teeth before we left. My brother almost started complaining but I grabbed his sleeve and gave him a look that said, “don’t screw this up.” Levy and I raced up the stairs to my tiny blue bathroom and crudely slopped toothpaste onto our brushes and shoved them into our mouths, brushing as hard and as fast as we could.

Now, this is the part that I can never remember precisely. I can honestly say that all I can remember is my brother making some hilarious joke and my body buckling over with laughter. Laughter like I can never recreate, laughter like I’ve never laughed before, and laughter that exuded a much higher level of energy than what was needed for any human occupation. My body lurched forward and I collided with something cold, sharp, and cruelly numbing.

Everything went black.

I woke up just seconds later to watch a little blue sink fill with warm blood; I quickly realized whose blood it was and calmly asked my brother for a towel. I soaked three washcloths with the blood dripping from a small hole in the direct center of my forehead, the sink head cut deep into my skull and left a great deal of bruises and bloody scabs. My brother was hyperventilating and his pre-puberty screams, had I not been in so much pain, would have caused me to revisit the laughter I had just found so detrimental to my health.

The worse part of that evening was that I couldn’t attend my movie’s premiere. No Lord of the Rings for me. My parents used words like “rest,” and “recuperate” as excuses to keep my inside that on that godforsaken stormy night.

I didn’t care about any of the health problems I would encounter in the next week. I certainly didn’t know I’d have a hematoma and have to be rushed to the hospital. How was I to expect the gash was going to get infected and my whole face was going to swell up? I just wanted to see my movie.

So I threw a huge hissy fit ending with me dramatically blacking out and falling on the floor. My parents carried me to my bed and I had forgotten the whole thing by morning. But my memory of that night still stands out as one of the funniest I can remember.

The next time you’re close enough to see the microscopic pink scar in the middle of my forehead, you’ll know the ridiculous, childish story behind it. After all, what is life without a few stupid mishaps and baby breakdowns?