The lucky among us often get their wisdom teeth extracted before the teeth have the chance to really make themselves known. I am not one of the lucky ones. Half of my wisdom (the top half) was removed in an emergency situation, and the other half, as they were not problematic yet and I couldn’t afford the $400 for general anesthesia to have them cut out, were left where they were.
They are no longer where they were. Now, they are halfway-in, halfway-out of my gums and growing forward. There is a “T” shaped intersection of enamel in the back of my mouth, and I am, of course, still broke. Now that I think of it, I’m not a heck of a lot wiser, either.
Last night I did not sleep, but it was not for the normal reasons (party, work, stress, company). Instead, I lay my tired self into my bed, ready to immediately drift off into la-la land—and then an invisibly pygmy shoved a screwdriver in the back of my jaw. And kept it there. For six hours. I’m not one to bawl like a melodramatic child, but that’s exactly what I did. I sobbed, I choked down handful after handful of Ibuprofen, and I thrashed around in my bed like an agitated mental patient. I watched the sun rise through my window, and was thankful–it meant the dentists’ offices would be open soon.
So now I’m going. I’m going to the place that I fear only slightly less than I would fear a garage full of giant, vengeful skunks. And I’m going to let them poke and prod, and I will probably cry, and I will make plans to have the remainder of my wisdom extricated from my body. I’ll pray that they give me some form of drugs that will knock me into an immediate but not-too-prolonged coma. And at the end of the day, I’ll put the expense on a credit card, because that’s what adults without money or wisdom do.