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So about a year ago, my dentist remarked that my wisdom teeth should probably come out.
Nonsense, I thought. They didn't hurt and besides, my mom still has all of hers so I must be genetically fit for this pearly prudence procured post-puberty.
Alliteration aside, I was doing quite well until they started to hurt later that day. It was probably from all of the normal poking and prodding they do, but with the dentist's warning still swirling around my brain, I couldn't help but freak myself out. What if they were rotting away inside mouth like some moldy living rock? My cat had gone through this a few years before and my love for her was only dwarfed by the intensity of her rank breath.
Fears of dead teeth and cat breath aside, I ignored the dentist until the next check-up where, again, he warned me of decay and ominously stated, "Your wisdom teeth need to come out in the next six months."
It was like he had muttered an incantation, triggering the self-fulfilling prophecy. Once again, my wisdom teeth began hurting after the visit and the pain lasted longer this time.
In a panic, I scheduled an appointment with the recommended surgical center and stewed in my fear-tinged resentment until the fated day came.
X-rays, a consultation, and then the surgeon walks in.
"Your teeth are all fully erupted. It should be an easy, 20 minute procedure. They are stained which is often an indicator for future decay."
Stained. Stained. No matter my affection for red wine and dire need for coffee or their effect on my other teeth. Somehow the "stain" only matters on the wisdom teeth, which need to come out.
"But it's your choice. It's an elective procedure. Most people do it."
The last time I tried to use that logic, I was presented with the counterargument, "And if most people jumped off a bridge?"
To be fair, as long as there was a bungee cord or a trampoline at the end, the answer would probably be Hell Yeah.
I was IV sedated at 11:17, or so says my FitBit, and I looked at it again at 12:11, mostly lucid and resolutely determined NOT to make a complete fool of myself like those viral idiots with their mouth full of gauze. Instead I was going to be a dignified idiot, mouth full of gauze notwithstanding.
I slept and iced and slept and iced for a full 48 hours and, fortunately, the swelling remained minimal. But the pain. That needle-y pain of a dental hygienist poking your gum with her cruel instruments in the same spot endlessly, the impossible jaw exhaustion you thought you'd seen the last of after screaming all night at that Linkin Park concert when you were 21 (RIP Chester Bennington), the taste of blood in your mouth like freshly printed pennies.
And the suction. The suction from your cheeks against the sockets every time you want to click your tongue, clear the food away from the still sensitive area, or even swallow. That feeling that is not so much pain as discomfort as your body thinks, "Well...that's not normal."
I admit I was "informed" of the procedure's voluntary nature, but I nonetheless feel pressured into making my "decision" by my dentist and by the nurses who suggested I schedule the consultation immediately before the surgery. Will having my wisdom teeth out help me in the long run? Who knows? Sure it was kinda hard to get back there with a toothbrush, but I think they make special ones these days. I mean, it is 2018.
Moral of the story, listen to your body. My body didn't think it needed surgery and would've liked to have a bit more time to think about the options.
