Crack, Pow, Done

I was originally trying to make the title of this blog entry a play on "How Stella Got Her Groove Back" by replacing "Stella" with "Daniel" and "Groove Back" with "Back Tooth" and then I realized that it was just a big hot tranny mess and gave up on it.

So my top wisdom teeth had to come out. Went in, got numbed up (the worst part of which was the punching-a-hole noise of the big metal hypodermic delivering numbing agents into my gums) and then hung out for a while. The chair offered very little arm support, so my options were to cross my hands on my stomach, or have them dangle sadly on either side of the chair. I ended up doing both, several times, as well as occasionally texting Christina to alleviate the monotony. They wouldn't let her come in with me - which was probably a blessing for her - but being able to contact her over text was enough to keep me tethered away from the world of panic I could feel myself slowly floating towards.

And then it began. Turning my head, reaching in, and applying what I logically knew was too much pressure - this much pressure should not be exerted on me, I worried - I felt my palate buckle and rock like a suspension bridge in high winds, and out came one. A turn, a wiggle, more torsion, and pow, the second. After all the dread and the twenty or so minutes of waiting, the entire ordeal lasted all of five minutes. Packed the holes with gauze and sent me on my merry way. The only thing I did all the while was assure the doctor I felt no pain, and laugh uncomfortably when a tooth was ripped from my skull.

I laughed a lot of the way home. They didn't give me nitrous oxide - it was just so absurd, the sensation of having your teeth ripped out. What was there to do but laugh? I even got to see the poor bloody things laying on the tray.

The new tooth configuration feels pretty good, like loosening your belt a notch. I don't envy myself the terrible pain that is assuredly on the horizon, but that's what Demerol is for.