B
Beryl M
Guest
Have you ever been to a dentist?
This is not a story about wisdom. It is about the extraction of an impacted wisdom tooth. Mine. But, no one would read a story titled, ‘My Wisdom Tooth Extraction.’ Wisdom is a better title. One could say having it pulled was wise, as far as wisdom goes in this story.
One should begin at the beginning, and the beginning is anywhere I want it. The story could start, . . . ‘I was born with four, fully developed wisdom teeth . . .’ but that is another beginning. Or, it could start with the oral surgeon’s knee firmly planted on my chest, wrestling with my tooth as an angler with a giant marlin.
I was led into a dimly lighted room where the surgeon performed the exam under a very hot, closely placed flood lamp. He poked around with an ice pick, occasionally tapping it with a meat mallet to check for sensitivity. X-Rays were required. The antiquated machine arced and sparked as it rotated around my head. The nurse took the lead shield out of my mouth – I had wished it were elsewhere – and led me back to the examining room.
In a few minutes, I was led down a flight of cobbled steps, candles lighting the way. I should have known something was not quite right, but you know me. When we reached the bottom of the steps, we turned left to enter the chamber, pardon, surgical procedure room. I was a little startled by the Iron Maiden, but not too worried until placed in the slatted operating chair, wrists and ankles manacled tightly to its arms and legs. It was then I noticed the various sets of chains, pulleys and attachments bolted into the hewn stone walls.
Using a multi-pronged hypodermic with bent tips, he injected some substance he called Novocaine in front of and behind my errant tooth. Waiting only a moment my head was pulled back and restrained with a chain hoist so the surgeon could pull the tooth from a non-moving substrate.
Once in place, the surgeon cut away two or three inches of gum in order to have clear access to the tooth. He then took the bent pliers with the ratchet lock, and began ratcheting down on the tooth. Once locked, the struggle began. Twisting, and turning using the trampolines on either side of the chair, he would fly into the air over me, firmly gripping the pliers at all times. Becoming bored with the fight, he started twisting, turning and going into various contorted positions while air borne. I would have rated his performance at 8.55, had he not landed on my chest with his knee at the end, then giving a hard yank to finally extract the wasted beastie. Six point three is the best I can do after that.
After the bleeding stopped, maybe a pint or so, and I was too weak to do anything, they unlocked the manacles and let me out of the chair. I stumbled up the cobbled steps and wound up at the cash register where my credit card was maxed out. And that is how it was. . . almost.
I was ordered to eat soft food following the two minute surgery that actually took three twists and two gentle turns with a slight tug to remove the beastie. In order to self-justify the massive, homemade malted milkshakes I had to exaggerate this story about the nicest people in the business. And there you have it.
This is not a story about wisdom. It is about the extraction of an impacted wisdom tooth. Mine. But, no one would read a story titled, ‘My Wisdom Tooth Extraction.’ Wisdom is a better title. One could say having it pulled was wise, as far as wisdom goes in this story.
One should begin at the beginning, and the beginning is anywhere I want it. The story could start, . . . ‘I was born with four, fully developed wisdom teeth . . .’ but that is another beginning. Or, it could start with the oral surgeon’s knee firmly planted on my chest, wrestling with my tooth as an angler with a giant marlin.
I was led into a dimly lighted room where the surgeon performed the exam under a very hot, closely placed flood lamp. He poked around with an ice pick, occasionally tapping it with a meat mallet to check for sensitivity. X-Rays were required. The antiquated machine arced and sparked as it rotated around my head. The nurse took the lead shield out of my mouth – I had wished it were elsewhere – and led me back to the examining room.
In a few minutes, I was led down a flight of cobbled steps, candles lighting the way. I should have known something was not quite right, but you know me. When we reached the bottom of the steps, we turned left to enter the chamber, pardon, surgical procedure room. I was a little startled by the Iron Maiden, but not too worried until placed in the slatted operating chair, wrists and ankles manacled tightly to its arms and legs. It was then I noticed the various sets of chains, pulleys and attachments bolted into the hewn stone walls.
Using a multi-pronged hypodermic with bent tips, he injected some substance he called Novocaine in front of and behind my errant tooth. Waiting only a moment my head was pulled back and restrained with a chain hoist so the surgeon could pull the tooth from a non-moving substrate.
Once in place, the surgeon cut away two or three inches of gum in order to have clear access to the tooth. He then took the bent pliers with the ratchet lock, and began ratcheting down on the tooth. Once locked, the struggle began. Twisting, and turning using the trampolines on either side of the chair, he would fly into the air over me, firmly gripping the pliers at all times. Becoming bored with the fight, he started twisting, turning and going into various contorted positions while air borne. I would have rated his performance at 8.55, had he not landed on my chest with his knee at the end, then giving a hard yank to finally extract the wasted beastie. Six point three is the best I can do after that.
After the bleeding stopped, maybe a pint or so, and I was too weak to do anything, they unlocked the manacles and let me out of the chair. I stumbled up the cobbled steps and wound up at the cash register where my credit card was maxed out. And that is how it was. . . almost.
I was ordered to eat soft food following the two minute surgery that actually took three twists and two gentle turns with a slight tug to remove the beastie. In order to self-justify the massive, homemade malted milkshakes I had to exaggerate this story about the nicest people in the business. And there you have it.