Rite of Passage

It’s like a rite of passage. Some walk over hot coals; others have that lil’ bit of extra skin cut off their woohoo; others have a good ol’ drink; others have a party at a certain age – but actually, with the consumerist society that we are, the parties come more often and less far between! The important birthdays are no longer the coming of age, but the coming of ages: we have 13, we have 15 in some circles, we have 16, we have 18, we have 21 and it really does go on. But they are all rites of passages. And this was what I thought when I got told I would have to have my wisdom teeth removed.

Upon viewing an x-ray, not only were the two at the top ready to be removed, but the ones at the bottom were not in fact ready to grow vertically, but set to torpedo themselves in a horizontal manner against the rest of my teeth. The dental nurse gasped when she saw the image, I panicked and said “Oh no! Is it bad? I’ve only ever had fillings. And they’re white.” Ashen, she didn’t answer but took me back to the dentist. I quickly explained to my mother and told her I had been alarmed by the nurse’s reaction.

The image suddenly came on the screen for all in the room to see. There was a unified, sharp intake of breath, my mother the most dramatic – whilst I sunk deeper in the chair and wondered if it kept my mouth firmly shut whether it would all go away…

Instead, dental surgery dates were made; I went a little paler than my natural shade and the nurse stroked my forehead.

Finally the day for the worst of the surgery arrived. First, they messed up the times and told us it was very possible that we be made to wait for 2 hours. I had no intention of sitting in the waiting room for a terrible thing to be done to me! It was the same concept of the ECT waiting room in psychiatric units; why on earth would one go and voluntarily wait to be electrocuted?!

So, we waited. A grown man went in for a normal extraction and came back looking like he was about to cry. My heart panicked and my mother went to reach out to him. I told her it wasn’t PC.

The anesthetic was administered and I broke down.

My only concern was that the anesthetic wouldn’t work and that I'd have the bad luck of not passing out before I had felt too much pain.

The surgeon stepped in and after having been assured by the nurses that he was one of the best in Madrid, he said, “Which are we taking out today?” my eyes widened and as indignantly as possible, given my thick tongue, I answered, “The bottom ones!!”

Silent tears streamed down my cheeks as he pressed down and jimmied away at my tooth. I imagined he was going at the tooth like one would with a car jack. The nurse pointed the sucking tube in all directions, which at one point made me wonder whether she may suck up one of my tonsils by mistake…

Finally the surgeon said, you may hear something break now. The only thing I could think was that it had been such a mistake to not have worn waterproof mascara.

The other side was less anesthetized and my panic grew as he touched the drill to the gum. Being an English student, my attempt at a rather long, incoherent sentence escaped my wide open mouth, trying to inform all that it bloody well hurt. Message was conveyed and on it went.

I was stitched up and the room cleared, all except the matronly type of an Eastern European nurse, who I’m sure had stroked my forehead at intervals throughout the operation.

I stood up and she stuffed two rolls of gauze in either cheek. More silent tears escaped as I tried to tell myself not to cry, it was over now! But for heaven’s sake, I wanted my mother! The nurse looked shocked and asked me whether I was upset because I was leaving them? I cried a little harder.

I walked into the waiting room with cheeks thrice as puffy as when I had walked in 2 hours earlier and stared at my mother. She and the other 6 people there stared back at me. It was quite possibly shaping up to be the end of the world.

I spent that day with an ice pack and on very high pain meds.

The next day I woke up with no pain, but then looked in the mirror. My cheeks were huge! I looked like the Elephant Man’s long lost sister! Such was the size of my cheeks that my mouth had been pushed into the tiniest constant pout and my chin had disappeared!

Bending down was not an option as my cheeks weighed too much. Walking swiftly or running was also completely out of the picture as I would need a support for my cheeks. Eating, yawning and copious amounts of talking were also out of the question as the backs of my cheeks had been sewn to the backs of my gums. This was like a gastric band but in the mouth!

I spent three miserable days, looking like I was trying to smuggle hoards of little people in the pouches hanging off my jaw line. Leaving the house was done by wrapping a scarf up to the tip of my nose and ending up looking very much like a highway hit-man.

By the fourth day, the swelling had gone down noticeably, I had recovered a chin and also yellow bruising. I now looked like I was going fabulously mouldy.

I have decided this rite of passage is horrific and fully intend on being as high as a kite for the removal of my next pair in March. I will also go armed with waterproof mascara and a large scarf. I will have some pre-written cards in my pockets, the one at the top of the stack will read, “You have 3 seconds to back away from my mouth before I scream bloody murder.” Or something to that effect, possibly less polite.