“I’m afraid they have to come out…”
I stared at my dentist like a deer caught in the headlights and my stomach did a gut-wrenching somersault when Dr. P uttered those fateful words at my recent semi-annual checkup. After forty-odd years of living with all four of my wisdom teeth I had just been told that two of them had to go. With my face in my hands I reluctantly agreed, made the appointment for the extraction for a month later before I changed my mind and left the dentist’s office in shock. On the drive home I silently cursed the new dental hygienist, whose name I didn't even know, and whose over-zealous cleaning had revealed the decay at the back of my two upper wisdom teeth that led to the fatal proclamation. Once I got home and shared the verdict and my subsequent distress with family and friends via Facebook, I received many sympathetic yet calm assurances that everything would be OK and things would turn out fine.
Riiiight….
How can I explain my sentimental attachment to these wisdom teeth? It’s almost been a matter of pride over the years to be able to say that I never had to go through the usual rite of passage of having them removed as most people do when they reach young adulthood. And how can I explain the fact that a grown woman is literally terrified of having these teeth removed? I haven’t had to have any teeth pulled in almost fifty years and my memories of the experience are not pleasant.
I have had a love/hate relationship with my teeth my entire life. On one hand, I am very grateful that dental science and hygiene have progressed to the point that I still have all of my adult teeth and will likely keep all of them [or almost all of them] until they put me six feet under. At this point in his life, my Dad had a full set of dentures. I am also grateful for great healthcare benefits that allow me to care for my teeth with regular semi-annual checkups. On the other hand however, caring for my teeth over the years has been a royal pain in the… mouth. I have endured more pain and grief over these choppers than I care to remember.
From the time I was old enough to visit a dentist for the first time, I was told that my mouth was a dental disaster area: two teeth missing since birth, two so malformed in the jaw that they would never erupt, a horrendous overbite and a set of buck teeth that would have made a gopher proud, and double teeth, one in front of the other like a shark. For years, the “before” plaster cast of my mouth occupied a prominent place in my orthodontist’s office among a rogue’s gallery of his worst cases.
I was nine years old when my family dentist, Dr. S insisted that I needed braces and my parents thankfully agreed though they could little afford the expense. However before the braces could be put on, Dr. S and the orthodontist both agreed the remaining eight baby teeth had to come out. No sense putting braces on teeth that were destined to fall out anyway.
On the day of the appointment to extract the first four teeth, a terrified young girl sat in an over-sized dentist chair with a mouth full of cotton waiting for the moment of truth. Dr. S went for the first tooth… and in spite of his gentle assurances and a hefty dose of Novocain, it hurt like Hell. Seriously... I once worked in a butcher shop and cut the tip of my finger off... three separate times... and it didn't hurt as much as having these teeth pulled. I let out a blood curdling scream that surely cleared out his waiting room, bit his finger and immediately dissolved into a quivering puddle of tears. At least that is the way I remember it. Dr. S managed to get the tooth out, as well as a second one but perhaps fearing for the safety of his remaining digits, he finally gave up and sent me upstairs to the oral surgeon.
Dr. G fared only a little better with me. The anesthesia of choice at the time was ether gas and while it knocked me out sufficiently so he could safely extract the remaining teeth without sacrificing any fingers, it also nauseated me to the point of vomiting and apparently I also got to laughing and kicking during the procedure. I’m sure he was very happy he only had to see me once.
When my adult teeth finally came in, it was back to the orthodontist. For $750 a set, a princely sum back in the ‘60s, which my middle-class parents paid off in installments of $10 or $20 per visit, I joined the ranks of kids everywhere who have had to endure the predicable taunts from classmates by being called “metal mouth”.
I spent the next twelve years wearing those braces… In fact I wore them so long that orthodontic technology improved to the point where the type of braces became outdated and obsolete… three times. In addition to the monthly checkups and periodic tightening of the braces, I also had to occasionally endure a parade of dental students peering into my gaping mouth to see the antique appliances I was currently sporting.
Although it seemed as though my orthodontist was perfectly content to send me to my grave wearing the braces, I finally called it quits when I turned twenty-one. I was convinced they were the reason my love life [or lack thereof] was so abysmal [they weren't but there was only so much you could do with a shy, geeky college student during the age of disco music] and I told my orthodontist to remove them. When they finally came off after twelve years, I actually felt naked.
My wisdom teeth started erupting about the same time and although I was terrified at the prospect of having them removed, the orthodontist assured me that I had plenty of room and as long as they came in reasonably straight, I could keep them. I hope he wasn't insinuating that I have a big mouth.
So here I am forty-plus years later, facing the fact that after all of this time, I have to part with two of my wisdom teeth. We've been through a lot together… over the years they have been coddled and cared for, drilled and filled, but it has become an effort of diminishing returns. Doc P. says they need to go while they are still reasonably intact. So in less than three weeks, ready or not, they are coming out.
I've asked Doc if I can have them once they've been extracted. He gave me a strange look but assured me that if I want to I can take them home with me. I’m not exactly sure what I will do with them… but maybe, just maybe I’ll hold onto them… and when the time comes…make arrangements for them to join me six feet under….
No comments:
Post a Comment