F3

Tess Allen

Stumble Upon

del.icio.us

Digg

Facebook

Print

Email

Speak Up

I was assured many things before my operation to have my wisdom teeth removed.

Among them, the promises that I would be blissfully stoned for the entire day following the procedure, that I would get to miss up to five glorious days of school and, most crucially, that I would get to snack on innumerable soft treats for a week, including such delicacies as ice-cream, milk-shakes, and Jell-O.

I found myself thinking, could I have asked for a better deal?

Indeed, I could have.

As it turned out, I did not remain euphorically baked for hours after the operation. I also found out that missing more than one day of school in Grade 11 is highly unwise if you have any dreams of graduating before your 30th birthday.

And ice-cream, milkshakes and Jell-o all start to taste the same after eight straight days of eating nothing but.

Having your wisdom teeth removed is not all it's cracked up to be.

I had my consultation on a grim and dreary November afternoon. There was a slight drizzle in the air and the wind was bitterly cold, the kind that appears to nibble on your skin like airborne piranhas as you attempt to walk through it.

I came to the realization as we approached the building that it was in the same complex where I'd had my braces tightened for two years. All of these factors combined felt like a warning of sorts: this was not going to be a good day.

As it turned out, I was perfectly right. Who'd a thunk?

When I'm attempting a complicated math equation, the word 'correct' doesn't even appear in my vocabulary, but when it comes to ghastly suspicions, I know my stuff. This is what I was thinking of as I waited to hear the dentist's verdict.

As it turns out, it doesn't take long to decide whether or not a kid needs her wisdom teeth removed. The dentist took one brief glance at my X-ray and informed me that I would indeed need to have my wisdom teeth taken out, and now it was just a question of whenever was most convenient for me.

My father and dentist had a tuneless discussion about their schedules and I was listening in the way that most teenagers listen to their elders, i.e. not.

Before I knew it, a date had been set for the following week. This seemed a tad cursory, but maybe that was because I was still reeling from the fact that my former orthodontist's office was a mere 30 feet away (which is enough to send any kid into shock if you ask me).

The day of my appointment arrived more quickly than I would have liked it to.

As my mother and I drove to the dentist's office, I was feeling as though I'd consumed an entire trough-full of butterflies eagerly waiting to burst forth from my belly in a splash of nervous colour.

An antsy wait in the dentist's chair had me feeling even more nervous before the nurse bustled in to drug me up before the operation.

She attempted a slur of clumsy small-talk while she hooked me up to the IV and poked the needle into my forearm.

I closed my eyes and prayed desperately that this would not be like that awful movie Awake. As my conscience prattled nervously on about Jessica Alba's atrocious acting skills and eventually worked myself up into believing that I would fall into that one per cent of people who experience 'anaesthesia awareness,' I felt myself start to drift off.

In little under a minute, I was drawling on to my surgeons about my favourite Disney movies and how many toes I have. In other words, I was high as a kite.

I don't remember a thing about the surgery itself, but I was later informed that I didn't shut up throughout the entire procedure.

Quickly following the surgery, I stumbled into the post-operation waiting-room where I apparently became best friends with a boy named Justin, another teenager who'd also had the misfortune of having his wisdom teeth removed.

During my brief drug-spell, I vaguely recall expressing my love for him before pirouetting my way to the bathroom. I was also later disgusted when my mother handed me a carefully wrapped sachet of my bloody, freshly-pulled teeth, which I had apparently insisted that the nurse give to me after the procedure. The reason for this demand during my 'high state' remains unknown.

The pain-relievers wore off sooner than I would have liked, and soon I was feeling the post-procedure ache.

As soon as I got home, I popped a couple of painkillers and passed out on the living-room couch. The rest of the day, when I was conscious, was spent with a bag of frozen peas crushed against my jaw.

The following week was spent in much the same manner. I was living off a steady diet of strawberry Jell-O and Advil. I wasn't surprised to learn that I'd lost a good five pounds, which I gratefully gained back when my mouth stopped feeling like someone had stuck pins into every square-inch of my gums.

It also took a few days for me to stop looking like I was storing walnuts in my cheeks but, once the swelling went down, I was basically able to start eating solids again.

At the end of a week and a half, I was feeling much improved. My back teeth continue to ache a tad from time-to-time, but I'm healing up quite nicely.

I just hope against hope that whatever wisdom I have left after the procedure remains intact. I can't afford to lose any more marks in Geometry.

* Tess Allen is the editor of Whatever and a Grade 11 student at Moncton High School.