High Life / A WEEKLY FORUM FOR HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS : Oral Hysteria : The Crowning Fear Is Firmly Rooted In Patient Attached to His Wisdom Teeth

I recently underwent an ordeal which almost all teen-agers experience at one time or another.

Wisdom tooth extraction proved to be about as much fun as having teeth pulled.

There I sat, in the orthodontist’s office, listening to the doctor explain to me what types of appliances would soon be crammed into my mouth.

My parents and I were given a sheet explaining the dangers of braces (something like, “in a worst case scenario, problems may necessitate the removal of the patient’s head”) and a list of foods I shouldn’t eat during my treatment (basically, anything harder than cheese).

I was doing fine until he said the words I had secretly been dreading: “Before we put braces on the bottom teeth, those lower wisdom teeth need to come out.”

The orthodontist showed me the X-ray of my lower jaw, explaining that my lower wisdom teeth were impacted--facing forward instead of straight up. (I preferred to think of them as differently oriented.)

The third molars, or wisdom teeth, are at the back of the mouth and are, for the most part, unneeded in normal chewing activity.

These teeth receive their name because they normally erupt during one’s early adult years (presumably the time in which one receives wisdom).

Needless to say, I wasn’t too thrilled at the thought of having part of my anatomy removed.

The molars, to which I hadn’t previously given much thought, gained new significance upon their impending removal.

I’d never realized how attached I’d been to them.

It was, however, the physical, not the emotional, attachment of the teeth that worried me the most.

To make things worse, almost everyone I knew had some sort of horror story about their own or a friend’s wisdom tooth extractions.

Most consisted of “You poor thing! My sister had hers out, and her face was swollen for two weeks.”

One teacher told me of a friend whose oral surgeon had had trouble finding the teeth to remove.

My mother’s dentist had to stop mid-operation and take medicine for his heart condition.

The dreaded day finally arrived.

As the surgeon had requested, I’d fasted for eight hours prior to the outpatient procedure.

After five nervous minutes in the waiting room, I was taken to the room where my teeth would once and forever leave my body.

A nurse took my blood pressure (I didn’t have one) and swabbed my arm with cotton.

The oral surgeon then entered, said “good morning” and pulled out a large syringe full of Valium.

As he injected the drug into my arm, my last words were, “Wow, I can feel it traveling up my arm to my . . . “

I was out cold.

Slowly, the dim room began to materialize.

A blur, which somewhat resembled a nurse, said, “You’re all finished. Would you like a glass of water?”

“Yes,” I answered.

During the next few seconds, I found a whole new meaning to the phrase “drinking problem.”

It seemed that during the operation the doctor had removed my lower lip and replaced it with a large, wet rubber disc.

By the time I’d finished pouring the water onto my shirt, I felt conscious enough to go home.

By the time I’d finished the walk from the car to my house, I was ready for a nap.

I staggered into the den, flopped on the recliner and entertained myself with my anesthetized lip for the next 30 minutes.

I was doing fine until about two hours later, when the medication wore off.

It didn’t take long for my mouth to realize that it was missing some teeth and to make my brain well aware of that fact.

My brother was quickly dispatched to the pharmacy to pick up the painkiller that had been prescribed for me.

The prescription narcotic that he returned with made quick work of the pain and also gave me a new understanding of the ‘60s.

After two doses, I decided that a little pain was better than the mellowing side effects of a drug whose label instructed me not to operate heavy machinery.

During the next two days, I consumed the better part of a bottle of Advil.

As painful (or, for the purpose of college essays, character-building) as the experience was, perhaps the worst part was the soft food diet that my temporary chewing disability dictated.

I still cringe at the sight of Jell-O.

Meanwhile, back in my mouth, two more wisdom teeth wait.