For all who are interested (or for those of you who have nothing better to do than read about my dental work), I present the epic chronicle of my wisdom teeth and their extraction (don’t ask why, I have no idea why this struck me as an interesting, or even worthy, topic, but, if nothing else, maybe someone nervous teenager will come across it while mining Google one day for information on wisdom tooth extraction, and my testimony will then be of some use to the general populace…I’m good at making excuses for my oddness, no?):
1. For many years, my dentist and my dental hygienist have been all but pestering me to get my wisdom teeth removed. “They’ll cause you problems,” they said. “They’ll eventually crowd your teeth,” they implored. But, due to a stubborn (perhaps misguided?) conviction regarding not having unnecessary surgery and my father’s counsel (“Dentists have been telling me for thirty years to have my wisdom teeth removed, and they’ve never bothered me!”), I held fast.
[Note about dentists and dental hygienists: they are incredibly maligned. I know many people are afraid of dentists (my own dear girlfriend included), and I really can’t begrudge them for it because there are some very scary and mean dentists out there. But, if you think about it, dentists and hygienists are mostly very well-trained; they have to do hard, thankless work (I mean, really, who wants to poke around in the mouth’s of strangers for hours at a time?); many dentists, especially oral surgeons, have as much training as most doctors and have to be as qualified; and yet everybody hates them. Personally, my dental hygienist, Bonnie, has always been extremely kind, gentle and courteous, and I feel that, at the risk of being an extreme dork, that a shout-out for hygienists and dentists (the good ones, at least) is necessary. I’m also impressed by the technological advances in dentistry, because tooth-aches suck (in short) and I can’t imagine have to chew cloves forever or go to some crazy neighbor with a good pair of pliers (what I fear qualified as dentistry in the past) to have it taken care of.]
2. About a year ago, my wisdom teeth started to cut through my gum line. Every few months, one of them would get a little pushy and start sneaking it’s way towards the surface. The pain was bearable, a little irritating, but it would go away in a few days, so I still wasn’t convinced by my dentist’s advice.
3. A few months ago, I started to realize that my teeth seemed to be shifting (the normal ones) to accommodate the ever-encroaching wisdom teeth (especially the one on the right that was coming in sideways). Ever so slightly, but even so it was disconcerting. And I developed pockets of gum tissue that would occasionally become infected (although I didn’t realize this is what was happening until recently) and I constantly had to be wary lest food get trapped in the pockets. This and the perplexing (and disturbing) shifting of my other teeth frustrated me enough that I decided I would ask my dentist if his offer was still open the next time I came home.
4. A few days before Christmas, I went to the dentist, reported my decision and, by the time my hour-long visit had concluded, I had an appointment for just after New Years with an oral surgeon and a blue referral sheet and panoramic X-ray in hand. They work fast, these dentist people.
5. Two days after New Years, I reported to the oral surgeon with girlfriend and mother in tow. I was very nervous and a bit irritable because I was hungry. I wasn’t supposed to eat anything because of the anesthetic and since my appointment was at 2pm, I had gone the whole morning and part of the afternoon without food or water. I’m sure April and my parents got tired of my whining earlier that morning, but were too polite to say anything--sweet of them, since I was starting to irritate myself (I obviously wouldn’t handle fasting very well).
6. Moments before the surgery, the doctor explained to me the risks of the procedure while April, who was supposed to stay with me in the room during the prep and then leave before they actually began any of the real work, grew paler and paler in her assigned corner. I don’t think she was taking well to the whole dental experience--probably having flashbacks and cringing visibly whenever she would hear a drill from one of the neighboring rooms. Then, she sent April to the waiting room, and the doctor and nurses gathered around me. I had some weird sort of fear of the IV and the fact that they were putting me under general anesthesia, but in retrospect I’m so glad I wasn’t awake. The laughing gas they put me on—I guess to calm me down before putting in the IV and really putting me under—was extremely disconcerting (not amusing at all), but I barely felt the prick of the needle in my hand and moments later I was out like the proverbial light.
7. About an hour later, I began to wake up and April tells me (although I do not have any memory of this) that, waiting in the recovery room, I proceeded to tell her (over and over and over) the same story about the laughing gas and how it disturbed me. Apparently I also had several panicked moments in which I realized my tongue was numb, asked her frantically if she thought that meant something was wrong, instructed her to get the nurse, and then lapsed into a stunned silence only to repeat the whole episode again moments later as if nothing had happened. I wish I remembered all this, but I suppose if I had been fully cognizant, it probably wouldn’t have happened.
8. Around 4pm that day I was cursing and snarling at my family as they rallied around me on the couch. But I was trying to be polite about it. You see, the painkillers hadn’t quite kicked in and the numbness of the local anesthetic had worn off, and my entire mouth—gums, teeth, tongue, palate—seemed to be screeching silently in pain. Everyone was asking me how I felt and if I needed anything and all I could think about was that my face felt like it was going to fall off. But I managed to grind out several terse replies of “Please. Just. Go. Away.” and then apologized later for being rude. I know it’s ridiculous, but I was feeling oddly guilty—everyone was being so nice and I just couldn’t stand to have anyone in the room. When the painkillers (Vicodin and prescription-strength Motrin) blissfully kicked in, I slept for about twenty-four hours (give or take), taking brief breaks to be fed Jello and Naked smoothies, watch television through hooded lids, and to take more medication (every four and every six hours, when my mother would pad into the room and thrust some water and a pill into my hands).
9. A day and a half later, I realized that I am a terrible patient. I can’t sit still. I appreciate the pampering, but I’m not very good at accepting it. I wanted to help pack for our trip back north. I wanted to check my email without my eyes crossing. I wanted to sleep in the same bed with my girlfriend instead of on the couch. I wanted to help my mom with the 3D puzzle I bought her for Christmas or help my dad strap the roof storage container on my car.
10. Now, I’m sitting at home. We made it back to NY safe and sound. I discovered, through dubious but fairly thorough internet research, that I probably have something called dry socket in my lower right wisdom tooth hole. This is basically a failure of the blood clot (which acts as a scab over the wound) to form (or the disruption of an already formed blood clot in the first 24 hours), resulting in, as one site called it, “exquisite pain” because the bone and nerve-endings beneath the gum are exposed instead of being protected by the blood clot. It’s fairly common, and one can treat the pain, but not the actual condition, apparently. I could be wrong—since I’m not really qualified to self-diagnose--but I fit every single one of the symptoms I found on several different medical and pseudo-medical websites. It hurts, but it’s not the end of the world. And treating it myself with clove oil (which makes my whole mouth numb and tingly) and gauze and lots of Listerine and regular doses of over-the-counter Ibuprofen seems to do the trick. That’s where I am right now. But it seems to be getting better incrementally every day (for the first time this afternoon I wasn’t watching the clock to see when I could take another painkiller, so that’s a good sign). [Edit January 9, 2006: I talked to two different nurses today, one who told me I did have dry socket and one who told me that if I had dry socket I would be in so much pain that ibuprofen wouldn't even take the edge of. I'm inclined to believe the latter since the pain's been getting less. Obviously the same symptoms look very different to different people.]
I’m glad I got it done, though, despite the trouble. I have hopes that now my teeth will jubilantly, if slowly in the manner of teeth, spread out a bit to enjoy the new spaciousness of my mouth (it would make flossing easier), and that though my teeth are now in a miniature manila envelope in my jewelry box (they were removed almost completely intact), I will have no want of wisdom in the future.
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