The Extraction

I was fifteen or sixteen when the tooth pain started. I think I complained a lot—every day for a while, maybe.

My mother’s response was dismissive. Brush your teeth more, your mouth looks yellow, and other variations of not listening. She didn’t hear me. My fucking mouth hurt.

Eventually, I got dragged to the dentist for a routine checkup. He looked in my mouth—no cavities. I was good at brushing most days.

My wisdom teeth hadn’t yet come in, and he thought that might be the problem. He ordered an X-ray to see what was going on under the surface.

“Your wisdom teeth are impacted,” he said, pointing to the X-ray film held up on the lightbox.

Even my untrained eyes caught it—those teeth were sideways. A real one-of-these-things-is-not-like-the-other moment.

“All four of them,” he continued, shifting my gaze to the next piece of film.

He gave my mother a referral to an oral surgeon. This was out of his capabilities.

It was several weeks later when I found myself in the oral surgeon’s office to take care of the problem.

I was taken back to the surgical suite. I made it clear I didn’t like needles. One nurse distracted me while another slipped in an IV.

The anesthesiologist came in a few moments later and explained the drugs he was going to give me. I don’t recall the exact cocktail—sodium pentothal was in there, though, and I remember joking about it being truth serum.

“Just lay back, and in a few moments you’ll drift off,” he said before leaving the room.

I’m not sure how long passed. Five minutes, maybe? Ten?

The surgeon and anesthesiologist came back in.

“Oh, you’re still awake,” the surgeon said—some mix of surprise and disbelief in his voice.

“Okay, I’m going to put something else in your IV,” said the anesthesiologist.

I felt the difference—the tingle as it moved through my arm.

“Can you count down from 100 for me?”

“Ninety-nine…
Ninety-eight…
Ninety-seven…
…
Eighty-nine—”

“Okay, this isn’t working,” he cut me off. “I’m going to give you a bit more of the first set of drugs. Just relax—we’ll be back in a few minutes.”

I was floating. It felt nice.

They came back in.

“Okay, we’re going to use something different. We usually use this as a horse tranquilizer,” he said—half-joking, but serious.

“Let’s start that countdown again.”

“Ninety-ni—”

I was out.

It was a while later. My eyes were crusty, and I didn’t move. The lights were dim. I wasn’t in the surgical room anymore. That had been bright, with big floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the Blue Ridge Mountains.

This must be the recovery room, I reasoned. I knew I’d be brought here after surgery, but I hadn’t seen it before.

I could make out my mother a dozen or so feet away. My eyes were starting to adjust. I came to. I knew exactly what to say…

“Fhuuu…”

It was a sound, not a word. My tongue felt huge in my mouth—like sandpaper. I closed my lips and tried to get some saliva going.

“Fuuuck,” I groaned.

Better. Not what I was trying to say, but I had more.

The nurse turned to me, bringing a cup to my lips.

“Just take this in. Don’t swallow it—let it sit for a moment, then spit it out.”

I did as she said. The doctor and my mother closed the distance from where they had been to the bed I was laying on.

I could move my tongue now. My mouth was still dry, but not painfully so.

“Fuck, doc… that was better than heroin. Can I have some more?”

My mother nearly hit the ground.

I spent the next several days in bed. My mom kept pumping me full of Percocet despite me saying I didn’t want it.

“You want to act like a drug addict,” she would say, “then I’m going to treat you like one.”

I’m not sure how much Percocet she gave me. I kept losing time.

I remember sitting up and starting to watch The Price Is Right one morning… and the next thing I remembered, it was dark outside.

It was about four days later when we must have run out—and I started to sober up.

I went back to the dorms to hang out with Angie and the others. They took care of me through the withdrawal symptoms.

It fucking sucked.