Tooth Story
So I woke up yesterday morning sick to my stomach, and a little feverish. I had been feeling ill for a few days, but this was different. I could tell something major was up, I just couldn’t let myself succumb to its power. Instead I fought through it and went to my other job, school. The morning wore on, and I began to feel pressure on the left side of my mouth. It was an all too familiar feeling.
Two years earlier I had awoken on a Friday morning to the exact same situation. What I didn’t know then was the utter hell that weekend would be. It seems that all of my wisdom teeth are impacted, and therefore in need of yanking. However, being the poor retail employee that I am, I have not had dental insurance since I outgrew my father’s plan four years ago. Thus I didn’t know this little tidbit. I have had wisdom tooth pain before, and the doctor I talked to said that it was perfectly normal, that I should take Motrin. So I did exactly that. I took Motrin, a lot of Motrin. It became obvious about nine o’clock on Friday night that this was a little more than “normal” pain. So began my weekend. I sat up for three straight nights, intermittently sucking on ice for the ninety seconds of relief it provided, and popping Motrin like candy. As I did, my mouth began to swell, which I thought nothing of, being that I could only concentrate on the blinding pain.
The worst part was that I couldn’t find an oral surgeon that worked on the weekend. So I limped my way to monday morning, where I had a whirlwind trip to two doctors, resulting in $400 and one less tooth. The extraction was almost anticlimactic. It took about ninety seconds. Getting the anesthesia took longer than removing the tooth. I was a little disappointed. My pain had lasted seventy-two hours, the tooth only had to endure seconds of pain. It was like getting stabbed in the stomach, and left to die of slow bleeding in the desert, while my murderer is cleanly shot in the head while sleeping. I ended up back at work within a few hours. I had wished that it was a little more interesting than that. Hmm, I suppose that it truly is a curse when someone wishes you an interesting life.
Returning to my present situation, I of course thought that since the previous tooth had been so easy, this one should also be a cake walk. (As a side note, I do not like cake, thus the expression cake walk is not so rewarding since it really involves only walking with no cake as a pay off. Thus, it is more of an annoyance than something that is easy. I suppose an Xbox walk would be more appropriate.) When I told my friend about the tooth, she was very consoling and insisted that I should take it easy, foreseeing that it would probably be a big deal. No I reassured her, I would bounce right back. I am after all Superman. A little tooth can’t stop me. I was so sure of myself that I made no plans to change my schedule, nor to make arrangements with my professors. Instead I believed that the four hours I had the next morning would be sufficient. Mind that I was yet to even find and oral surgeon.
I went home and popped a Vicoden left over from the last extraction, and tried to relax. Oh, I should probably mention that that swelling in my throat the last time was actually the earlier stages of a severe allergic reaction. If unchecked it would have severely restricted my air flow, ultimate resulting in unconsciousness or even death. Thus I started with Vicoden this time, seeing as I like living.
I awoke at nine o’clock on the dot, and began calling oral surgeons. I found one in about ten minutes, and the receptionist said that If I could get there before ten, it would be possible to take the tooth out immediately. I showered, shaved, put on deodorant and rushed to the office. They were kind, and the dental assistant was quite attractive, I have a penchant for blondes. They guided me through the pre-operative procedures, past my really bad gag reflex and ultimately to the surgeons knife (that’s two french inspired words in a row, and my brain just spasmed trying to remember how to spell them). Every one was very subdued, like the prologue to finding out your legs were missing, or some other horrible news. I sat in the chair practicing my calming breaths while waiting for the doctor.
The cute dental assistant told me that she never felt the Novocain injection, and that this doctor was very good. I had my doubts, but it’s easy to trust a doe eyed face. It wasn’t so much that the shot hurt, it was the incredible pressure of the liquid that was now being forced into my already inflamed gums. I suppose the misnomer is that deadened nerves don’t feel anything. True, they don’t transmit pain impulses, they do however respond to pressure build up. This is important to remember for later. In my pained state I attempted to remain an alpha male and flirt a bit, in a non-icky I’m a dirty old man grabbing the waitress’ ass way. I was friendly and humorous. After all, I would very soon rise off the table and go on about my day, I’m Superman.
She exchanged some forced banter, compulsory laughter, and asked me if I should like a movie. Then she stood behind me and whispered with the other dental assistant. I assumed it was about me, but I wasn’t sure what the content was. I suppose that my creepy factor might have been higher than I should like, pain does weird things to your social barometer.
Alas, my smooth move seemed to have resulted in a sandpaper finish, with a little rug burn on the side. I attempted a recovering joking that I would use this as an excuse to skip class that night. Superman is no mere mortal, but the mild mannered Shades could easily succumb to a minor surgery. Ah the joys of a double life.
I realize that this has been quite a long setup, I merely wish for you to fully enjoy the debasement of my ego, and my now sheepish humility. It began with a little bit of pressure. The first incision seemed to have gone well. And I waited for the tooth to pop out. And I waited. Still waiting. Now it got interesting, because he started humming along with the musak. This got me to wondering, being a semi-trained mental health professional, I couldn’t help but see this as a reassurance that the growing pressure was not indeed a big deal. I figured that nobody hums along to musak because they liked it. Such a thing would be unthinkable.
I would like to say that the rest was a big blur, but no, every wonderful moment is etched into my near perfect memory. The dental assistant now began to reassure me, earlier I had jokingly said I deserved a lollypop, while having fleeting picture of what a blonde lollypop might be like. Now I just imagined a nice Demerol drip with a little Valium thrown in for forgetfulness. He worked for another ten minutes or so. It was then that the assistant brought out the tooth pillow. This was a novel concept to me. It was rubber and soothing, because my mouth had never been open quite this long before. I imagined other places where such a feet would be required and determined than none would be appropriate to mention in anything less than an R rated story.
So I now began to realize that we were going to be here for a while. After all, pillows are only offered on long flights where you were sure to develop blood clots in your leg, so that when you next stood up you would suffer a massive stroke leaving you with a droopy face and an almost vegetative existence due to a seemingly universal lack of faith in life after death. I was now at the point of worrying a little bit.
Everything still seemed manageable until the doctor reached for his drill. Now, I know that the drill is perfectly safe, and I’ve had cavities that required filling, but something about the haphazard way that he wielded it was disconcerting. It wouldn’t have been half as bad except that he played with it before he put it in my mouth, and it actually sparked, and then blew air on my face.
Even Superman is allowed to be concerned when electrical equipment is moments from insertion and it behaves more like a welder from Monster Garage, than a precise dental instrument. Speaking of which, the few minutes before the drill were filled with pliers, actually hardware store pliers that he used to grip and rip on my tooth. Not only did tooth fail to budge, but he actually lost hist grip and fell backwards not once by three times while trying to yank it out. Here is where the pressure part comes in. I had the wonderful experience of feeling my jaw being contorted and thrown about under the strain of these very delicate instruments. It wouldn’t have been too bad, except that the nut kept shredding my lips. It was too much of a reminder about the similarities between my teeth, and stubborn engine parts.
Now he started humming as he proceeded to chop up my tooth with the drill. I realized at this point that he was humming because he enjoyed getting to decimate a tooth. I could only imagine his joy at throwing caution to the wind and taking long jagged chunks out of my tooth. Thankfully the assistant had the vacuum out, so all I felt was the occasional shrapnel striking my tongue on the way into the maw. I now had the mental image of a special ops soldier getting to hack and slash his way through the enemy, for once not bound by the rules of engagement. I suppose this is where normal psychopaths end up. And now one of them had been set loose upon my tooth.
The part that worried me the most was the dental assistants now continual commentary on how well I was doing. It was like getting a shot as a child. The nurse would rub my head and and tell me that I was a big boy for taking the ten gauge needle to the hilt in my butt. I wondered if this would all have been better if I had not had one and half years of graduate psychology classes. It’s like fully understanding what the doctor is saying during a surgical consult. Which usually translates to: I am going to stop your heart, break open your rib cage, and fish around inside your body with a knife and a vacuum hose while you will loose enough blood to have died twice and experience the shock of being revived from the dead, or something very close. Of course Superman endures much, so I began insistently relaxing, that is I forced myself to relax, yes I understand the utter stupidity of such a statement. Work with me here, it was a very traumatic experience.
Okay, so now the fun began. As he violently hacked away at the tooth, my gag reflex began to kick back in. I can usually control it quite well, but twenty minutes was a bit longer than I could stand. The assistant admonished me to breath through my nose, which began to prove more difficult the harder I concentrated on it. Like when the doctor says to breath normally. If he wanted it to be normal, why did he say anything. Besides the fact that a cold metal object placed on my chest does not induce anything close to normal. So as I gaged and the assistant admonished me, the doctor continued to hum, growing louder so that he could hear himself over the din of his drill.
It seemed that he had finished with the drill and I noticed that he rather reluctantly put it away. Now he said that I was going to feel a lot of pressure. Hmm, it was here that the problem of definitions became very important. You see, the pliers rakeing themselves across my jaw and forcing themselves onto my gums was my definition of a lot of pressure. However, to the doctor I suppose that constituted a stroll in the park. I suppose that if the park were in Siberia in winter, then we would have a similar definition of a lot of pressure.
I never realized that my jaw was so flexible. I was able to open wider and assume many more poses then I ever thought possible. If there was mouth Yoga it would seem that I could be a master.
He worked for what seemed like five minutes, and it appeared that he was making no headway until, pop. Out came part one, followed almost immediately by part two. Ha, my one consolation was that this tooth had put up a heroic fight, and in the end was cleaved in two and thrown mercilessly into the fire. Rot in hell you calcium bastard. Of course, now I needed sutures. They weren’t too bad, only the string falling down my throat and the yanking on my gum as he knotted each suture in place. I counted four. Now I have seen the size of wounds that require four stitches. My wrist surgery required five stitches and that scar is two inches long. This was not a good sign. It seemed that Superman may have just swallowed kryptonite along with his pride.
The doctor then rushed off to the next appointment, and I was left with the cute assistant who now gave me a very endearing look. I felt like a little child who had broken his arm and was now being treated with ginger sympathy. I am not sure I could have moved at that point, and am very grateful that she didn’t ask me to sit up or anything. When I was finally able to mutter a question, I simply asked why it had been so difficult. I will never forget what she told me. Oh it wasn’t difficult, it was only that the tooth lay so deep he had to cut it in two in order to get it out. Right, and repairing a damaged heart valve in an infant is only a minor procedure.
