Alternate Title: When Things Get Gross
After feeling fairly certain that the first oral surgeon I consulted would kill me and hide my body in the break room mini-fridge, the next surgeon I saw was actually a bigwig at a local military hospital who works out of the dentist’s office in my work building one or two evenings a week. He inspired much more confidence. The office itself? Less so.
Mistake Number Two: Good surgeon does not equate competent office.
October of 2013. I decided to have my surgery on the Thursday before Columbus Day weekend so I’d use one less day of PTO. Sadly, my birthday was Columbus Day.
The dentist’s office quoted me a price for the surgery, I got it scheduled, and away we went.
On the day of the surgery, my mom and aunt drove down, and my mom would stay with me for a day or two. Because even though I was turning 27, I was still a giant baby.
THE SURGERY ITSELF (TAKE ONE)
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.
Things that happened at Rhode Island Ave. station last night:
-Saw a man in an artillery-style vest full of small vials of liquid. Kept thinking, “He could never take that on a plane! I should be concerned.” And yet I got on the bus anyway, which speaks poorly to my survival instincts.
“I’m afraid of something! So now I’m going to enclose myself inside a bus with it!”But at least now I know what “scents” are.
-Was approached by a crazy guy. He opened with, “I don’t know your name. And it doesn’t even matter now.”
I thought, well, this is it.
But then he just went on to tell me that I was the sexiest woman he’d seen all day. I was confident–and not afraid like all the other women.
Oh really, strange man? Women are afraid of you, you say?