The Lost Weekend
By Adam Ferguson
“Well, you only have two and they may not give you problems now, but they may later. I’d recommend getting them removed.” With that sentence, my dentist sentenced me to years of dread. I’d have to get my wisdom teeth removed and I needed to figure out a way to put it off for as long as possible.
-14 Years Later-
I’m sitting in the waiting room in my oral surgeon’s office. My shirt is soaked with sweat, mostly because I am a giant pussy and partially because I’m getting the cold sweats after a night of drinking. The nurse called me in along with another patient - teenaged girl who looked like she hated her parents.
“Oh, you guys are getting the same thing done! Two upper wisdom teeth removed. How great!” The nurse said walking us down the hall.
The girl was calm as can be. She couldn’t be more than 16 and she walked down that hallway like a champ. Me, I had to keep my mouth clenched for fear my teeth would rattle with the nervousness. I had to keep my cool. I had to show her there was no way she’d ever out-do my maturity or years of pain regression.
“Let’s do this doc…” I said to the surgeon as he walked past. The look on the girl gave the clear impression that I was uncool, unhip, and probably a douche. But fuck her, I could buy alcohol and operate a meat slicer.
As I made my way into “Operation Room 1” I never realized it would be the start of a very long weekend.
Go under. Don’t go under. The gas is great. With the gas, you’ll feel everything. I’d heard different recommendations as to how to get my wisdom teeth out over the past 14 years. Some said to go under, others said to enjoy the gas. I’d been under before, but never had the gas. And because I didn’t want the doctor to go into the other room and tell the girl that a grown-ass man had to go under for the same procedure because he’s a giant cockhat, I opted for the gas.
I’ll save you the specifics of the operation, but will mention that while the procedure was painless, it definitely felt fucked up. “I’m gonna have to lean on you for this one,” the doctor said, placing a clamp on my tooth. Now, imagine someone taking a monkey wrench, affixing it to your jaw, and yanking hard. The sounds and feeling of bone splintering inside my head were some of the most interesting sensory experiences I’d ever felt.
Granted, if I didn’t have the gas, I would have probably freaked out and assumed this is what they did to prisoners in Vietnamese camps. So while I was high as fuck, I will say that the experience was strange and slightly uncomfortable. And when I walked out of that room, head held high and filled with gauze, I saw that little teenaged stoic and gave her a look of “this is how a real man deals with pain.” She was too drugged out to notice and my face was probably too swollen to show any real emotion, but in my head, I was a god.
Once out of the office and in my (also hungover) girlfriend’s car, I felt like a million bucks. The same type of feeling one has after they’ve cheated death or called an African-American man “my brother” without physical retribution. I felt so good that I considered going in to work for the rest of the day.
I have an incredibly high tolerance for pain. I’d heard all these horror stories and assumed everyone else was being a little bitch. Only that isn’t exactly true.
Except around 2pm, some of the pain medication wore off and it felt like I’d be hit repeatedly in the face with a shovel. Repeatedly. With a shovel. I quickly went home, had some spoon-fed applesauce and a Vicodin. The rest of the weekend is kind of a blur after that.
And perhaps that’s a good thing. You see, I just moved from New York to Connecticut and live in an apartment that sits on a harbor with an entire wall of windows overlooking the water. Awesome views. Shitty when there’s a hurricane making a beeline for your new digs. My girlfriend was busy preparing jars of water for the upcoming apocalypse and I flipped between hours of euphoria and hours of eye-ripping pain. I was vaguely aware we were about to be hit by a force of nature, but too gooned on the junk to give a shit.
When Irene did hit us, we were left with (luckily) a little water damage and zero power. So while my cherished ice packs and blended drinks would have to be put on hold, I was happy to have a roof over my head and zero trees invading my living room.
This is a long winded way of saying: I either picked the best or worst weekend to have my wisdom teeth out. The good news is I’ve got a few more Vicodins left as next weekend I’ll be spending it with the in-laws.
