I hope he left a little wisdom...

Yesterday morning I had wisdom teeth removed, approximately 20 years later than everyone else I know.  I thought the fact that all four came in, without incident, back in college meant that I was safe. However, back in grad school my dentist told me that it would be best for me to have my back four molars extracted. Perhaps it was because I hadn't been to the dentist in more than a decade at that point, or perhaps it was because my mind simply couldn't comprehend the notion of preventative surgery, or perhaps it was her diploma was from Romania and I harbored some secret resentment or prejudice against Ceauşescu and his kinfolk.

 Whatever the reason I did nothing.

[lapse, two years]

About three months ago, I went to a new dentist, who happens to share a name with the designer of my glasses:

image appropriated from Scott Harris

But this is beside the point.

The point is that this second dentist told me the same thing 3 months ago as the mad Romanian back in 2010. One referral, one consultation with an oral sureon, and one hefty dose of nitrous oxide and I.V. sedation later, I have four fewer teeth than I had yesterday morning.

Amazingly, I remember nothing about the procedure whatsoever. Nothing. Intellectually, I knew this would probably be the case, but somehow I didn't really understand the full extent of it. One minute, I'm inhaling the laughing gas, doing mantra, keeping my left hand in chin mudra as the surgeon asks me, "Are you starting to feel relaxed yet?" I tell him I do, and ask him to turn down the gas a bit. 

(This was also my first time under the effects of nitrous, which feels like nothing so much like as being fifteen feet under water while holding your tongue to a 9-volt battery.)

Anyway, I'm watching myself in this state, hear myself responding to questions, and the surgeon asks me which arm I prefer for the I.V. 

"The right," I say.

He asks me to pump my fist, compliments my veins, and I can barely feel the needle piercing the skin. Then. a flurry of sounds as the surgeon and his two assistants begin taping the stint into place. It sounds like a wrapping station at Boca Town Center Mall on the day before Christmas.

The next thing I know, I'm awake.  My yin is there, and the surgeon is saying that everything went well. I'm neither groggy nor in pain, and other than the fact that my jowls are packed full of gauze, everything feels fine. I drift in and out of consciousness on the way home, and somewhere along the way my yin stops to fill prescriptions for antibiotics, painkillers, and some mystery mouthwash that I didn't even know existed.

The rest of yesterday passes in bed, with a disturbing - though not frightening - amount of blood dribbling out of my mouth.  Apparently they use enough Novocaine to kill a horse when they pull your wisdom teeth because my chin and front lip feel like a dead fish until sundown. This made it next to impossible to drink anything without leaving a pinkish spill of bloody water for a two-foot radius around me. I keep an ice pack on for 20 minutes out of every hour, and my yin, amazing as always, nurses me through it all, mashing potatoes and blending in broccoli so I can get some vitamins before finally going to bed.

I wake inexplicably at 2am, lie in bed for two hours, then get up and move to the living room.  By this point, the swelling has gone down and there is surprisingly little discomfort.  In fact, other than the constant, metallic, oozing taste of blood, I seem to be more or less okay. My appetite is beginning to return, I can actually touch my front teeth together, and ibuprofen is le drug du jour.

All that remains to be seen is whether or not the surgeon was able to follow-through on the last request I made before he turned on the nitrous: "If possible, when you pull the teeth, please try leave the little bit of wisdom I've accumulated."

Time will tell...