My Adventures with Third Molar Removal (under construction)
Created | Updated Mar 16, 2003
Subj: Rough draft 1
Date: 3/11/2003 10:35:08 PM Eastern Standard Time
Two and a half weeks ago, on February 21st, I lost my first two body parts. I fought hard to keep them, since, in my opinion, they weren't doing anything harmful in any way. In fact, I was rather fond of my two partially emerged wisdom teeth and had every intention of keeping them ... forever. This, of course, flew in the face of conventional dental practice which insists that wisdom tooth removal is a *good* thing to do. Yes ... but only if you're making money by doing it. I saw no reason to allow someone to inflict needless pain and then expect to be paid for it. What kind of an idiot did all those dentists over the years think I was? <nahnah>
So, what persuaded me to finally submit to this procedure? The conspiracy that dentists have that prevents them from filling a cavity in a wisdom tooth, that's what. "The third molars? You won't be needing those anyway ... here, take this card with the name of one of my fellow wicked conspirators who will be more than happy to yank them out for you for a hefty fee."
I took the referral card and promptly lost it. Six months later at my next checkup, my dentist reminded me sternly that "it was time" ... oh sure, easy for him to say.<cross> I was given another referral card and promptly filed it in the deepest recesses of my wallet where it stayed for another six months. The dentist was quite surprised seeing that my wisdom teeth had grown back by my following appointment, since I had surely had them removed, being the cooperative patient that I am. Ha! Fooled him. <winkeye> The receptionist handed me *another* referral card as I paid my bill at the desk. At this point, I considered using my collection of referral cards for a large origami project.
Knowing my dentist to be a skilled and knowledgeable individual, I decided it would be best to take a gander when I got home. Peering at the back of my jaw, I saw two teeth that were in obvious need of a little spackle compound. I knew the "dentist conspiracy" would not allow anyone to repair my little toofies. I also knew that without such repair, they would continue to decline. Thinking of my teeth like real estate, I realized that these little slum teeth would take down the value of the rest of the neighborhood. The problem areas would indeed have to be removed.
Sucking it in, and with great trepidation, I pulled the dog-eared referral card out of my wallet and made an appointment for a consultation at the oral surgeon's office.
Better yet, I actually showed up for the appointment. I was ushered into a dental chair, and never seeing the dentist, I was treated to a video presentation. Like the scene in the Star Trek episode where Captain Kirk stares at a little glowing disk on the wall while his mind is sucked away, I watched as extremely dull medical individuals explained the risks involved in third molar removal. These risks did not sound good to me ...particularly the one involving loss of sensation from possible nerve damage. The part about potential death was less bothersome.
As I left the place, the receptionist had the audacity to suggest that I come back the following Tuesday, allow them to drug me senseless, and chisel out my teeth. I refused. I did, however, agree to come back in a couple weeks, after rounding up a friend to escort me home after the anesthesia. What was I thinking?!!! <yikes> <run>
For the next two weeks, I refused to think about it, other than to make arrangements to take off a day from work, and make necessary preparations, like having soft foods on hand. Finally! An excuse to eat ice cream! ... only I didn't buy any. <erm>
The fateful morning arrived, and I was surprisingly calm for a woman who had never been knocked out or had sugary for anything. Of course, the single Valium they thoughtfully told me to take an hour before surgery didn't hurt.<winkeye> My sister-in-law arrived at the appointed time, and amazingly, she didn't have to pry me out of the doorway to make me go. *puffs up chest* Dag, I'm brave! <ok> (again, that little Valium must have helped)
We arrived at the office and I signed in. I think it was a nice neat signature, but it might have been a scrawl for all I knew. We sat in the most unBobly uncomfortable red vinyl torture chairs on earth in the waiting room until my name was finally called. My poor sister-in-law would have to endure another hour of that. *I*, on the other hand, was about to embark into the unknown. <yikes>
The nurse settled me in the usual reclining dentist's-type chair while hooking me up to the heart monitor, where I watched myself beep for a couple minutes at a nice steady rate. Then, they installed an IV line in my arm. So far, so good. I was a little nervous about them actually stuffing the sodium pentathol into the IV, so I decided to close my eyes. I didn't want to watch. The nurse told me it usually went better if you closed your eyes, so I did. I don't remember another thing. <zzz>
I opened my eyes. It slowly dawned on me that it was over. I tried to swallow ... OUCH! Who the hell took sandpaper to my throat?! I slowly became aware of my jaw. It really wasn't bad, but it whinged. My mouth was numb. Ack! My throat was, to put it mildly, *uncomfortable*. I attempted to swallow a couple more times, but I was reduced to begging for water through piles of gauze ... <wow> they understood me and handed me a little sip of water. That helped, but now I had a mouth full of *wet* gauze. So, I gagged. A moan escaped from deep in the back of my throat ... and the nurse just *knew* I was gonna ralph ... which I did. I sheepishly handed her BACK that sip of water she had given me earlier. <blush> I backed away as she tried to put the wet gauze back in my mouth. "Nnnngh", I uttered. To repay me for my cooperation, she jammed a needle in my arm and gave me a burning injection to calm the nausea. "OWWWWWW!", I yelled! Normally, I would let a medical person stick a needle in my arm without much complaint (maybe a wince), but by this time, I was not in the mood. <cross>
The trip out to the car was uneventful, and J.J. drove to the pharmacy to pick up the needed prescriptions ... wherewith, I handed her all my credit cards and sent her away with my blessings. She returned with a bag full of stuff. Why didn't the doctor give me these prescriptions to fill *ahead* of time? At this point, my brain cells were inoperable, so J.J.'s explanation of when to take each of the seventy-five billion (actually four) prescriptions was lost in thin air.
Noticing that my eyes were glazed, she offered to take me back to her place and watch over me the rest of the day. Reason would have dictated that this was a good idea. I was not reasonable at the time. I just wanted to go home and crawl in my own bed. J.J. took all the stuff and I headed up the steps to my apartment. Once again, the moan came out of my throat about halfway up the steps ... "I need my bag.", I said as I turned to her with big eyes. Fortunately, she was as quick as the nurse had been on the draw, so the carpet remained stain free. Good thing too ... this would have resembled a Manson murder. I had the urge to write "Helter Skelter" on the hallway walls in my own blood, but I resisted the temptation to frighten the neighbors. <tongueout>
After J.J. departed, I stumbled to the computer (of course) to inform Lady Scott that I had survived. Don't ask me how I managed this feat, because I don't remember. I stumbled into the bathroom and took one of each of my prescriptions...because I figured at the time this would be a good strategy. Make no mistake, I carefully avoided the suppositories they had given me for nausea ... those bad boys got stuffed back in the bag where they belonged. Then, I returned to my computer and promptly took a little nap over it. I woke up and thought briefly about the ice packs I was supposed to use. "Ehhh, to heck with it.", I thought to myself as I went to bed and slept until late afternoon.
I've been to the dentist many times before. I'm familiar with Novacaine. Normally, it wears off after a few hours. The following day and all through the weekend, the right side of my mouth was just as numb as the moment I woke up in the dentist's chair. I knew there was a possibility that my lingual nerve had been damaged, just as the mind-sucking video had warned. On Doobry morning, I was *sure* it had been damaged.
At this point, panic had begun to set in. <yikes><run><yikes><run> The oral surgeon had severed my nerve, I was certain of it. AUGH! My mouth was F.U.B.A.R.ed, which being translated into English means <<bleep>ed> up beyond all recognition.
Years ago, I remember seeing a Peanuts cartoon where Linus is walking along with his tongue stuck out and a disgusted, panicked look on his face. Lucy asks him what's wrong, and Linus tells her that he suddenly became *aware* of his tongue. Afterwards, Lucy has the same look on her face because she becomes *aware* of her tongue. "Bleh!" This is my feeling, exactly. Trouble is, my tongue is constantly reminding me of it's injured presence. It felt as though it was swollen to twice the size it normally is on the right side, and it kept doing strange little spasm-ish things. I expected it to dry up and fall off at any minute, but checking in the mirror, it looked completely normal.
First thing Sodit morning, the oral surgeon's office was called. I remained calm and polite, and asked if there was something that needed to be done about the situation before it became permanent. In response, the surgeon wanted to see me right away. I was told to be at his office within an hour. <yikes>
... to be continued when I get "a round tuit"
Date: 3/11/2003 10:35:08 PM Eastern Standard Time
Two and a half weeks ago, on February 21st, I lost my first two body parts. I fought hard to keep them, since, in my opinion, they weren't doing anything harmful in any way. In fact, I was rather fond of my two partially emerged wisdom teeth and had every intention of keeping them ... forever. This, of course, flew in the face of conventional dental practice which insists that wisdom tooth removal is a *good* thing to do. Yes ... but only if you're making money by doing it. I saw no reason to allow someone to inflict needless pain and then expect to be paid for it. What kind of an idiot did all those dentists over the years think I was? <nahnah>
So, what persuaded me to finally submit to this procedure? The conspiracy that dentists have that prevents them from filling a cavity in a wisdom tooth, that's what. "The third molars? You won't be needing those anyway ... here, take this card with the name of one of my fellow wicked conspirators who will be more than happy to yank them out for you for a hefty fee."
I took the referral card and promptly lost it. Six months later at my next checkup, my dentist reminded me sternly that "it was time" ... oh sure, easy for him to say.<cross> I was given another referral card and promptly filed it in the deepest recesses of my wallet where it stayed for another six months. The dentist was quite surprised seeing that my wisdom teeth had grown back by my following appointment, since I had surely had them removed, being the cooperative patient that I am. Ha! Fooled him. <winkeye> The receptionist handed me *another* referral card as I paid my bill at the desk. At this point, I considered using my collection of referral cards for a large origami project.
Knowing my dentist to be a skilled and knowledgeable individual, I decided it would be best to take a gander when I got home. Peering at the back of my jaw, I saw two teeth that were in obvious need of a little spackle compound. I knew the "dentist conspiracy" would not allow anyone to repair my little toofies. I also knew that without such repair, they would continue to decline. Thinking of my teeth like real estate, I realized that these little slum teeth would take down the value of the rest of the neighborhood. The problem areas would indeed have to be removed.
Sucking it in, and with great trepidation, I pulled the dog-eared referral card out of my wallet and made an appointment for a consultation at the oral surgeon's office.
Better yet, I actually showed up for the appointment. I was ushered into a dental chair, and never seeing the dentist, I was treated to a video presentation. Like the scene in the Star Trek episode where Captain Kirk stares at a little glowing disk on the wall while his mind is sucked away, I watched as extremely dull medical individuals explained the risks involved in third molar removal. These risks did not sound good to me ...particularly the one involving loss of sensation from possible nerve damage. The part about potential death was less bothersome.
As I left the place, the receptionist had the audacity to suggest that I come back the following Tuesday, allow them to drug me senseless, and chisel out my teeth. I refused. I did, however, agree to come back in a couple weeks, after rounding up a friend to escort me home after the anesthesia. What was I thinking?!!! <yikes> <run>
For the next two weeks, I refused to think about it, other than to make arrangements to take off a day from work, and make necessary preparations, like having soft foods on hand. Finally! An excuse to eat ice cream! ... only I didn't buy any. <erm>
The fateful morning arrived, and I was surprisingly calm for a woman who had never been knocked out or had sugary for anything. Of course, the single Valium they thoughtfully told me to take an hour before surgery didn't hurt.<winkeye> My sister-in-law arrived at the appointed time, and amazingly, she didn't have to pry me out of the doorway to make me go. *puffs up chest* Dag, I'm brave! <ok> (again, that little Valium must have helped)
We arrived at the office and I signed in. I think it was a nice neat signature, but it might have been a scrawl for all I knew. We sat in the most unBobly uncomfortable red vinyl torture chairs on earth in the waiting room until my name was finally called. My poor sister-in-law would have to endure another hour of that. *I*, on the other hand, was about to embark into the unknown. <yikes>
The nurse settled me in the usual reclining dentist's-type chair while hooking me up to the heart monitor, where I watched myself beep for a couple minutes at a nice steady rate. Then, they installed an IV line in my arm. So far, so good. I was a little nervous about them actually stuffing the sodium pentathol into the IV, so I decided to close my eyes. I didn't want to watch. The nurse told me it usually went better if you closed your eyes, so I did. I don't remember another thing. <zzz>
I opened my eyes. It slowly dawned on me that it was over. I tried to swallow ... OUCH! Who the hell took sandpaper to my throat?! I slowly became aware of my jaw. It really wasn't bad, but it whinged. My mouth was numb. Ack! My throat was, to put it mildly, *uncomfortable*. I attempted to swallow a couple more times, but I was reduced to begging for water through piles of gauze ... <wow> they understood me and handed me a little sip of water. That helped, but now I had a mouth full of *wet* gauze. So, I gagged. A moan escaped from deep in the back of my throat ... and the nurse just *knew* I was gonna ralph ... which I did. I sheepishly handed her BACK that sip of water she had given me earlier. <blush> I backed away as she tried to put the wet gauze back in my mouth. "Nnnngh", I uttered. To repay me for my cooperation, she jammed a needle in my arm and gave me a burning injection to calm the nausea. "OWWWWWW!", I yelled! Normally, I would let a medical person stick a needle in my arm without much complaint (maybe a wince), but by this time, I was not in the mood. <cross>
The trip out to the car was uneventful, and J.J. drove to the pharmacy to pick up the needed prescriptions ... wherewith, I handed her all my credit cards and sent her away with my blessings. She returned with a bag full of stuff. Why didn't the doctor give me these prescriptions to fill *ahead* of time? At this point, my brain cells were inoperable, so J.J.'s explanation of when to take each of the seventy-five billion (actually four) prescriptions was lost in thin air.
Noticing that my eyes were glazed, she offered to take me back to her place and watch over me the rest of the day. Reason would have dictated that this was a good idea. I was not reasonable at the time. I just wanted to go home and crawl in my own bed. J.J. took all the stuff and I headed up the steps to my apartment. Once again, the moan came out of my throat about halfway up the steps ... "I need my bag.", I said as I turned to her with big eyes. Fortunately, she was as quick as the nurse had been on the draw, so the carpet remained stain free. Good thing too ... this would have resembled a Manson murder. I had the urge to write "Helter Skelter" on the hallway walls in my own blood, but I resisted the temptation to frighten the neighbors. <tongueout>
After J.J. departed, I stumbled to the computer (of course) to inform Lady Scott that I had survived. Don't ask me how I managed this feat, because I don't remember. I stumbled into the bathroom and took one of each of my prescriptions...because I figured at the time this would be a good strategy. Make no mistake, I carefully avoided the suppositories they had given me for nausea ... those bad boys got stuffed back in the bag where they belonged. Then, I returned to my computer and promptly took a little nap over it. I woke up and thought briefly about the ice packs I was supposed to use. "Ehhh, to heck with it.", I thought to myself as I went to bed and slept until late afternoon.
I've been to the dentist many times before. I'm familiar with Novacaine. Normally, it wears off after a few hours. The following day and all through the weekend, the right side of my mouth was just as numb as the moment I woke up in the dentist's chair. I knew there was a possibility that my lingual nerve had been damaged, just as the mind-sucking video had warned. On Doobry morning, I was *sure* it had been damaged.
At this point, panic had begun to set in. <yikes><run><yikes><run> The oral surgeon had severed my nerve, I was certain of it. AUGH! My mouth was F.U.B.A.R.ed, which being translated into English means <<bleep>ed> up beyond all recognition.
Years ago, I remember seeing a Peanuts cartoon where Linus is walking along with his tongue stuck out and a disgusted, panicked look on his face. Lucy asks him what's wrong, and Linus tells her that he suddenly became *aware* of his tongue. Afterwards, Lucy has the same look on her face because she becomes *aware* of her tongue. "Bleh!" This is my feeling, exactly. Trouble is, my tongue is constantly reminding me of it's injured presence. It felt as though it was swollen to twice the size it normally is on the right side, and it kept doing strange little spasm-ish things. I expected it to dry up and fall off at any minute, but checking in the mirror, it looked completely normal.
First thing Sodit morning, the oral surgeon's office was called. I remained calm and polite, and asked if there was something that needed to be done about the situation before it became permanent. In response, the surgeon wanted to see me right away. I was told to be at his office within an hour. <yikes>
... to be continued when I get "a round tuit"
