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Home Page   Local News   Local Sports   Community Calendar   Opinion   Editorials   Columns   Letters to the Editor   Archives   News Archives   Sports Archives	2-15-2007 So It Goes By CASEY CAMPBELL Between my girlfriend's recent wisdom teeth extraction and finally squeezing the last drop of Aquafresh out of my toothpaste tube, I've spent a lot of time lately thinking about teeth and mouth-related moments. The former, because oral excavations are always noteworthy events in a person's life and the latter because, well, how the heck did it take so long for that thing to run empty? Fifteen days in a row I thought I had tapped that well, only to find a magical reserve hidden in some tubular recess that had previously avoided my probes and squeezes. Mind boggling, it is. But not quite as boggle-worthy as wisdom teeth extractions, the process by which the dumbest molars in your mouth are violently ripped, kicking and bleeding (but definitely not biting) from one's face. Audra's recap of her experience and pictures of her lopsided (yet still adorable) chipmunk cheeks got me thinking about my own decidedly unpleasant experience under the knife about four years ago. Like everything dental-related, it was a debacle from day one. "Oh he's really going to have to dig those out," said a way-too enthusiastic technician after examining my x-rays. She explained that the four wise guys in the back of my mouth were coming in sideways, primed to jostle my other teeth all over the place as they bullied their way to the surface. Not only would this rearrange my mouth into some hideous semblance of a craggy Himalayan mountain range, but it would completely muck up the years and years of orthodontic artistry already spent making my chompers such marvelous munching machines. Reluctantly, I concurred that this was not in my best interest and we set a date with the oral surgeon for the start of my sophomore year winter break. What happened next is a matter of some debate among the various involved parties. I showed up as scheduled completely confident in the surgeon and his support staff. Confident that my brains would get suctioned out by those spit vacuums or that I would bleed to death from a severed facial artery. Sitting in The Chair awaiting my extraction, a technician began by asking a few innocuous questions: how did I feel today, what was I studying in college, what did I eat for breakfast, etc., etc. I mumbled my way through the first few questions but carefully described my breakfast, figuring they deserved to know what to expect when the retching began. Surprised by my answer, (like you've never eaten a grilled cheese sandwich for breakfast before) the technician called in the doctor and they began probing me further: how long ago had I eaten, how much had I eaten and just why did I ruin everything in the world by eating that cheesy delight. Apparently, in order for the intravenous anesthetic to work properly, I was supposed to have fasted for 12 hours before the operation. I explained this was news to me and information that had somehow not found its way into my hands, while a grilled cheese sandwich definitely did. That didn't sit well with the office secretary, who insisted she had told me or my father during a phone call the day before. Of course, that angered my dad, who said she hadn't mentioned a word of it during the call. And of course, I was just sick with anger at the whole mess, heartbroken even, as my long-awaited date was now pushed back another month. As depressed as a death-row convict who gets a stay of execution because the power's been knocked out, you might say. All too quickly however, my stay was up. There would be no final meal this time and no more delaying the inevitable. With gleaming, sterile medical equipment shining all around me and the sounds of light rock music filling my ears, a technician slipped a mask around my mouth and nose and told me to breathe normally. I began gulping down the nitrous oxide filling my mask, not in a panic but having decided that lots of knockout juice was better than a little. They also hooked me up to an intravenous anesthetic and a heart rate monitor, which was when things got real loopy. As my senses dulled, so did my heart rate. Hearing it slow down, I couldn't help but vaguely wonder if I was dying. But rather than freaking out, this thought made me giggle, which in doped up form appeared as a smile, some drool and a teary crinkle of the eyes. "How do you feel?" asked a technician and her two Siamese sisters. "Ohhhhhh I feeeeeel fiiiiiinnnee," I said, fighting the giggles that threatened to overwhelm my capacity for verbal expression. And then the world went dark. I woke up what seemed like minutes later and was driven home where I spent the next few days doing my best impression of a zombie. I shuffled around moaning and bleeding, glaring balefully at the beings around me, so full of life and completely out of my pain-filled and pain-killed reach. Eventually, I recovered without a hitch. The dull ache faded, the stitches dissolved and solid foods again found safe passage through my jaw. Soon enough, all that remained was the story, a tale of woe and misery and a great big pain in the … mouth.
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