For a very long time, I assumed I just did not have any wisdom teeth. Neither of my sisters did, and my dentist just never mentioned that I needed to have them removed, well past the average age that my peers had already undergone the procedure. Imagine my surprise when, last May, I was informed by my dentist that I had three wisdom teeth in my skull. Luckily, I had a while to come to terms with what I was sure would mean certain death before I absolutely had to have them removed since my teeth are evidently behind everyone else's by about five years, and were not threatening to poke through and wreak havoc on my orthodontic-straightened chompers any time soon. Alas, the time did roll around and I underwent the procedure recently. Here's a run down of what I learned about the parts leading up and following a wisdom tooth extraction.
The night before.
I completely forgot that I was about to undergo surgery until 11:20 at night on my way home on a rural road with no fast food for the foreseeable distance and as the incredibly neurotic person I am, I took the "no food or drink after midnight" guideline very seriously. I pulled up to Wendy's at 11:43 at night and had consumed 12 chicken nuggets and a small water by 11:52 p.m. while driving. I scalded the backs of my gums with the tiny, incredibly hot chunks of chicken from shoving them down my esophagus, barely stopping to taste or chew them. I arrived home and stayed awake for too many hours doing homework and refusing to believe what was about to happen to me at 8:50 a.m.
That morning.
I woke up at the ripe hour of 6:45 a.m. to the obnoxious, incessant chiming of my alarm, and never in my life had I ever wanted a cup of coffee so badly. The world is cruel like that. My nurse sister, not to be confused with my almost doctor sister, drove me to the office 45 minutes from home where I was having my procedure done, and the gray stone and modern wood and metal details in the office did little to calm my nerves.
Luckily, I did not have to wait long before a nurse came into the waiting room and took me back, and my nurse sister was more than happy to go back with me and hold my hand while the nice lady stabbed me in the arm and stirred the IV needle around searching for a vein like a damn vampire before settling on the vein in my hand. I am not ashamed to say I cried the whole time and continually apologized for being "that guy." I could hear my pulse-ox beeping too quickly and I could feel the blood pressure cuff too tight against my arm all the while, my breathing stunted by my tears and the impending anxiety attack. That is about when the nice lady made a gas other than oxygen come through my funny little nose tubes and I stopped caring real quick. Shortly thereafter, a very bald man who I assumed to be Dr. Morrow came in and pushed some stingy stuff through my IV and I fell into a nice slumber.
Unfortunately for me, the next thing I remember is coming to in the chair and being aware of all the people standing around and poking and prodding me in the mouth. Fortunately, I could not feel any actual pain, but the mere sight was enough for me to start panic-crying before falling back asleep.
The aftermath.
The next time I opened my eyes, the procedure was over and the nice lady who stabbed me a couple times earlier was helping me into a wheelchair. I have no recollection of the trip between the operation room and my sister's car, but I was evidently a real hoot. I continued using my normal vocabulary (read: big words that are not all necessarily conversational) but sounded like Jack Sparrow, so that's funny, I guess. I remember wondering when they put my sweatshirt back on, but I was thankful to have it. Fortunately for you, I also thought to myself that I should probably take a Snapchat for posterity's sake before conking out. This is what that produced.
I rode home in a daze, waking up a few times and recognizing my surroundings as somewhere between Lexington and Berea. I then proceeded to sleep for several more hours, as I had been given a nice cocktail of pain medications and anti-nausea medications that people pay a lot on the black market.
I woke up to a mouth full of blood and cotton, but I did not yet feel like I had been run over by a small truck. The worst pain I felt that day was when I forgot that I had holes in my mouth and tried to eat a cracker. The real pain came later.
The next morning and beyond.
While I had largely stopped oozing blood, the next morning brought the type of pain I kept expecting to have. I have described it as "getting punched in the face by Mike Tyson," since he's kind of old now and couldn't hurt me as much as he could have 20 years ago, but it still hurts pretty damn bad.
Worse than the pain, however, is being on hydrocodone. I have literally no idea how people who don't have chronic pain can tolerate it, better yet become addicted to it, because I constantly feel like I have the motor skills and the stomach of someone who has had six glasses of wine, but none of the good feelings that come with wine. This is not good for someone with poor proprioception and balance and inner ear problems on the daily, and has resulted in running into the corners of walls and tables. My social graces have also been compromised by the hydrocodone, and I've been a little bit too honest of late.
On top of this, it took me three days to have any desire to move and my almost doctor sister came home just yesterday to find me in a pile of empty pudding cups and tissue watching my 23rd episode of "The Vampire Diaries." Part of my neuroticism also means that I am constantly worried that I'm dying so I have gotten my sisters to look at my sutures every day this week to make sure I haven't gotten dry socket or gotten infected. I'm still not totally convinced that I'm not going to die. I still can't eat totally solid food, spicy food, or drink hot liquids. My mouth still feels foreign and uncomfortable and hurts a lot if I have not recently taken heavy narcotics. If I don't write a new article next week, you can assume I'm probably dead.
