The Longest Wisdom Tooth Extraction in History
My ordeal is finally over.
Last Tuesday I set a record for the longest wisdom tooth extraction ever -- 31 years. Let me explain…
It was August of '93, about four months after moving to the home town where my wife and I would settle and raise a family. I walked into an oral surgeon's office on Main Street with four very painfully impacted wisdom teeth. The young oral surgeon looked at my freakishly small mouth and decided that, yeah, he should put me to sleep. I’m very glad that he did.
When I woke up in the chair after some unknown period of time, I was staring at the face of a different, older surgeon. That seemed weird. Maybe I was dreaming? Nope. It turns out that the young surgeon was no match for my freakishly hard jawbone. He did manage to extract three of the teeth, tearing the corners of my freakishly small mouth in the process. Unfortunately, he broke the molar in front of the fourth. Apparently, he was so flustered that he left the procedure room, and the older doctor finished up. The older doctor decided to remove the broken molar and leave the fourth wisdom tooth in place, reasoning that it would likely descend into the space vacated by the molar.
I was surprised that the older guy was so candid and direct with me, but I appreciated the honesty. The younger guy eventually reappeared briefly — and, as I recall, dubbed me the guy with "the teeth from hell and the hardest bone known to mankind". I laughed. Which hurt — because, again, the guy tore both corners of my mouth.
So my wife took me and my freakishly small mouth home, her mood toggling between relief, horror and laughter at my temporarily twisted and bloodied visage. Not cruel laughter — it was more of an empathetic thing, as what had just transpired and the conversation that ensued seemed almost farcical to both of us. I would have laughed harder if it didn’t hurt so much.
In retrospect, I doubt I was that ghastly, given that our first child was born nine months later. But I suppose I could be pretty irresistible back in the day. The only thing we knew for sure was that we were never going back to that office. I offered a skillfully and politically crafted “I’ll get back to you” — or, more accurately, “Ah ret rah rooo ooo” — to the receptionist when she asked about scheduling a follow-up.
It turned out that the older surgeon was correct; my fourth wisdom tooth did eventually descend into the space vacated by my perfectly good, but shattered and removed, third molar (“the tooth formerly known as #1”, for those who like dental charts — I know, it’s confusing). It was a little crooked, but, hey, I learned to live with it. So, for thirty-one years I lived life with a wisdom tooth masquerading as #1 — a dark secret from my past hidden until now. If you ever need a trivia question about me, well, there ya go.
My string of luck finally reached its frayed end last year. Technically, it happened six years ago, but I delayed the inevitable through the power of personal avoidance. I will skip that part of the story — except to say that it involved an attractive Russian dentist digging a sharp instrument into a damaged molar to break and extract it. The cracking and vibrations of that tooth succumbing to her determined twisting and pulling reverberated through my skull, and still haunt me ...think very weird, sadomasochistic Scandinavian art film from 1972. But that’s what happens when you let an itinerant wisdom tooth wreak havoc in the back of your mouth for twenty-five years. But seriously, she’s a very good dentist, and I marveled at her persistence.
Life marched on, unfazed by the mental scars of dark and menacing dental procedures — until last year, when I began to experience some sensitivity to cold in the nether regions of my freakishly small mouth. Ruh-roh. Of course, I did what all self-respecting, card-carrying adult males do. That is, I ignored it. Which is never a good plan with teeth, but sometimes men aren’t the best planners.
So around mid December I began to leave messages at the dental office that was formerly staffed by the attractive and highly competent Russian dentist, only to learn a couple weeks later that they were closed for the holidays. You think they would have added that bit of info to their phone system… But, no matter, I was persistent, finally driving to the office to see what was going on, where I found out that this was their first day back from their extended break. Well la de frickin’ da. But the receptionist was polite and helpful, so I made an appointment.
The big day finally arrived on Monday. After exchanging the usual pleasantries (and X-rays) with the dental technician, I met my new dentist — a super nice bald guy who looks and sounds just like one of the pastors at my church, at least behind a surgical mask. So that was a little disorienting, but I persevered. He poked and pulled for a few seconds and then gave me his verdict: “Tom, that tooth is gross and needs to come out. Look, if we were trapped on a desert island, sure, I could yank it for you. But given your freakishly small mouth, I think you should see an oral surgeon. Here’s a referral and a prescription for some antibiotics.”
Admittedly, those weren’t his exact words. But they might as well have been. I appreciated his efficiency and candor.
So I drove home and called the oral surgeon — well, technically, the oral surgeon’s receptionist, but let’s not quibble. She was very excited, almost like an old-school 70’s UHF TV commercial narrator, as she explained that they juuust had a cancellation for the next morning, and if I act now, I too could experience the joy of a pain-free mouth in less than twenty-four hours! For my part, I was feeling a little 90’s Beavis and Butt-Head-y, as I grunted “Hm hm hm. Tooth decay. Cool.”
Actually, I was a little concerned. This was all a little too convenient for my conspiratorial mind. Things are not supposed to work this smoothly in life. Five-minutes with a suspiciously chill dentist and then two minutes talking to a receptionist and, boom, I’m all hooked up with a wisdom tooth extraction in 18 hours? Sure, right... In my day, you would sit for four hours waiting to see the quadruple-booked ophthalmologist. And you would like it, darn it!
I mean, this procedure started thirty years ago. It all seemed so sudden. Maybe we needed to slow down and let this relationship incubate? The office has five oral surgeons. The cynic in me wanted to ask ”Hey, you said that I’d be seeing Dr. Soandso. Not so fast, precious! How do I know that Dr. Soandso isn’t conveniently so available because everyone hates him and you’re just trying to take advantage of my plight in order to keep him busy because he is a psychopath and his partners are too afraid of him to let him go? Huh? Answer that smarty pants!”
Fortunately, I didn’t say that. I said “Great! Thank you!” And hung up.
The next morning arrived and I drove over to the surgeon’s office. Nice place. Maybe a little too nice. Part of me wondered why there were something like eight women working behind the reception desk, and who was paying for all that. Then one of them looked at me like her grandpa and sheepishly explained that her counterpart at Dr. Lookslikemypastor’s office failed to send the X-rays that they requested (and that I had taken extraordinary steps the prior afternoon to authorize). Which meant that they would need to irradiate me a second time in two days. And the pessimist in me said “Aha! This is where this too-perfect evil plan of the deep state begins to fall apart! I’ll have jaw cancer in a month!”
But no. I just shrugged and said “That’s fine.” And sat down.
As I worked on Wordle in my chair, a well-appointed older woman walked into the office and told the receptionist that she had an appointment. But she wasn’t so well-appointed in that respect, as there was no appointment according to the machine that runs everything. A quiet argument erupted, as one of the eight women behind the desk tried to explain that there is a second oral surgeon’s office next door (What? Do these people like to hang out together and discuss implants or something? I don’t get it.) But the woman didn’t understand and kept asking for “the man in charge”. And I could almost see all eight women, souls aghast, mouthing “pretty cringe” in unison. The one with the short straw tried to explain that there was no “man in charge”, but maybe she might try, you know, the oral surgeon next door. Which isn’t confusing at all to a ninety year-old woman. But she finally left.
A few minutes later, yet another nice young woman — one of three more who seem to work the examination room circuit in this super-staffed oral surgery mall — escorted me to a room with a sleek-looking machine that reminded me of a bad Woody Allen prop from Sleeper. But it wasn’t. It was an X-ray machine disguised as a robot. Unlike the day before, where they shove large plastic things into your mouth and make you bite down while suppressing a retching reflex, this was a super high-tech, stand-up situation where the machine talks to you and extols the virtues of the highly professional oral surgery practice you have chosen. I’m not kidding. This is HAL 9000 stuff — I wouldn’t move your chin if I were you, Tom. Do you like me, Tom? I’m a gentle and harmless machine, you know.
After a few seconds of sweet nothings, soft whirs and beeps, it was over, after which I was escorted to a stark-looking white room with a drop ceiling, cold, recessed fluorescent lights and a foreboding reclining chair in the middle of the room. I was sure that this was where the whole ruse would be revealed and I would be interrogated by the CIA.
But no. Instead, a tall guy with a soothing personality walked in, shakes my hand, and takes the time to be sure he understands my plight. This is all too weird. After some quick consideration and rejection of various options that didn’t really apply, he said “Yeah, that tooth has seen better days, I think we should pull it. You good to take care of it today?” Part of me wanted to say “Duuuuh!” But I didn’t.
I bravely ruled out full anaesthesia. So they did the whole numbing routine and stuffed some gauze into my mouth, apparently to prevent me from swallowing the tooth fragments that were sure to appear in a couple minutes. I apologized for my freakishly small mouth (quite a feat, as I was unable to form any consonants by that point). He laughed and remarked that I do have a particularly tiny mouth, but everything would be fine. I then said (and he miraculously understood) that I always thought that Julia Roberts would be the ultimate dental patient, due to her freakishly huge mouth. That made him laugh heartily and stop working for a few seconds (Note to Self: Stop making surgeons laugh right before they are about to assault your body with sharp instruments). He then proceeded to have a conversation with his assistant to the effect that he never found Julia Roberts attractive, precisely because her mouth is ridiculously huge. And I found that weird, because you’d think that guys like him would dream about such things. You just never know.
The rest of this tale is anticlimactic. Dr. Soandso removed the ancient wisdom tooth masquerading as Tooth #1. It took very little effort, probably less than two minutes. For a moment, I mourned that tooth. It and I had been through so much together over the prior thirty-one years — it surviving a near extraction, me surviving five kids. I almost wanted to bury it somewhere. Hey, four hamsters are buried in my back yard, why not a dear old wisdom tooth? But restraint is the better part of normal. So I restrained myself.
I went home and waited patiently for the pain and unpleasantries to set in. I waited. And waited. But the pain never arrived. I had a cold drink and, for the first time in a year, there was no shooting pain across my gum. Either dentistry has come a long way in thirty years or I’m weird. But I’m pretty sure both apply this time.
Thanks for reading.
For more reflections about gardening and the broader life lessons it bestows on us, feel free to check out my online book, Life Lessons of a Backyard Gardener, which I am publishing here, one chapter at a time.