As promised, the true story of the removal of my first three wisdom teeth. Broken down into pieces so I can get them out more easily. Just like the teeth themselves.
August of 2013. After taking an x-ray, my new dentist told me that–contrary to what I’d previously been told–I had wisdom teeth. And they were a mess. “Ratchet,” I believe the kids would say.
Mistake Number One: Not having my wisdom teeth out sooner. When I was a teenager, I had a dentist tell me I actually didn’t have wisdom teeth. When another dentist side-eyed this assertion and tried to send me to an oral surgeon for a better x-ray, I was like, “I don’t wanna!” And my parents said, “…Okay.” (This is also why I never got braces. This is also not a good parenting strategy. THANKS GUYS.)
This allowed my wisdom teeth to grow. To settle in and put down roots.
Roots = bad.
My first consultation was with a surgeon who had extremely hooded eyelids. This concerned me, since I could not see his eyeballs. Also, he seemed to be outright arguing with his nursing staff while I was in the office. Then they heavily pressured me–with lots of huffing and scowling–into paying $400 out-of-pocket for a special x-ray.
The special x-ray machine turned out to be in the break room, so I had my head scanned while surrounded by purses and lunches. Part of the consultation also then took place in the break room, interrupted when one of the nurses came in to tell the surgeon he had a call and to hand him a fistful of change. He proceeded to rant about how much he did not like the person who had called and how he wasn’t going to call them back.
I left feeling almost certain I was going to die.