None the Wiser
Out, damned teeth! Out, I say!
“Yep, they’re definitely going to need to come out.”
The first time I heard this concerning my wisdom teeth was senior year of high school. I’d known I had them since getting fit for braces as a tween, but it took a few years to be certain the teeth would break through and cause problems. My dentist—who I didn’t particularly like for a variety of reasons, none the least of which being that she often compared my academic achievements to her son’s—told me to remove them as soon as possible.
“Over Thanksgiving maybe,” she said.
“Are you seriously suggesting I have oral surgery during the biggest eating holiday of the year?” My usual teenage deadpan was extra thick.
All the dentist did was shrug. I didn’t take her advice. Instead, I never returned.
It was easy to put off medical appointments in college, having countless excuses as to why I couldn’t make it home to see an old doctor or wasn’t able to find a new one in Manhattan. I only went if it was absolutely necessary: a bad flu, kidney stones… and impacted wisdom teeth. My penultimate semester at NYU, the pressure these superfluous teeth put on my back molars caused an infection so bad I broke down and made an appointment with an oral surgeon in my hometown. He kindly prescribed an antibiotic, and again suggested the teeth be removed.
“Well, not right now,” I said. “I’m going to be in a wedding next month, and then I’m travelling to Utah, and France, and then there’s graduation and grad school...” He blinked at me, refusing to believe anyone would deprioritize their oral health for a trip. “Maybe in the summer?” I offered, knowing good and well it was a lie. I wouldn’t see him again, either.
Wisdom teeth are your third molars, and have earned their nickname because they show up later in life; usually in one’s late teens or early twenties when you’re presumed to be “wiser” than a child. The origin of the name comes from Ancient Greece, and was even referenced in Aristotle’s The History of Animals. The oldest impacted wisdom tooth dates back to the Magdalenian period, about 13,000 to 11,000 BCE.
Anthropologists believe that humans evolved with wisdom teeth in order to help them chew tougher foods such as nuts and seeds, but human diets have become softer since our hunter-gatherer days, making the teeth less useful. We’re also usually readily able to cook our food, something our ancient ancestors couldn’t always achieve, meaning they had to do more chewing (fun fact: this chewing also led to humans evolving with bigger brains). Nowadays the extra teeth are the most commonly impacted, and can be blamed for countless infections, periodontal disease, and cavities. The easiest solution, as numerous professionals told me, is removal. This became popular in the late 19th century, coinciding with the industrial revolution that served as the advent for processed food thanks to wars across the world.
Today, 10 million teeth from 5 million people are extracted annually in the United States, and nearly 95% of adults will have their wisdom teeth removed before turning sixty-five. Talk about a mouthful…
The combination of the pandemic and falling off my parents’ dental insurance after turning twenty-six extended the years between dental visits even longer than I planned. By the time I had a job with decent health care and found a new dentist who I liked because she played Def Leppard during appointments, a decade had passed since my last cleaning. Miraculously, I only had one cavity. And of course it was in a stubborn wisdom tooth.
“It’s not surprising. You can’t really reach there with a toothbrush,” my new dentist said as she checked my other teeth. “But it is leading to some general plaque build-up. You need a deep cleaning, and I probably don’t need to remind you that these babies have got to come out.”
I begrudgingly scheduled scaling appointments for all four wisdom teeth (a procedure that cost as much as an economy flight to London), then asked around for oral surgeon recommendations who would take my insurance. My partner Max’s provider Dr. Kaufman was a fit. I made the consultation appointment and let his staff take countless x-rays. He then brought the black and white images up for me on a screen in the examination room.
“Your wisdom teeth are breaking down the bone,” Dr. Kaufman said in a thick German accent as he pointed at the pictures. Blurry visions of teeth jutted out in all different directions. “Both in your second molars and in your jaw. This is bad. But, I am optimistic that you are young enough to build the bone back if we get them out soon.”
All I heard was that I was young.
Dr. Kaufman suggested I schedule the surgery in a couple of weeks. It was July. I told him I wouldn't have a moment until October, which he thought was foolish but agreed. Turned out I wouldn’t actually show up until the third week of January for my extraction.
I pre-gamed for it with a pap smear (my logic: might as well experience all the discomfort at once), some wine, and pizza the night before. Then, at 8 AM on a Friday, my mom and Max accompanied me to Dr. Kaufman’s office on 286 Madison Avenue. It started well enough with additional x-rays and a four-figure co-pay.
“Damn, responsible decisions are expensive,” I said, handing the receptionist my Amex card.
She smirked, running it through the machine. “Adulthood is expensive, sweetie.”
That I knew. I just thought my grown-up, thousand-dollar purchases would be like Carrie Bradshaw’s. More designer clothes, fewer medical procedures…
My anxiety started to escalate as I walked from the waiting to the operating room. Dr. Kaufman met me there with a smile. “Good morning, Rachel. How are you feeling?”
“Nervous,” I said.
“No need to be. This is going to be a very easy procedure.” Dr. Kaufman pointed to his tray of tools. “We shall start with numbing you. First, with some gel, then with injections. You will feel a small pinch. Next, we do the extraction. If at any point you need to stop, just raise your left hand. You understand?”
My hands were too shaky to think of raising one, let alone trying to guide the preoperative antibiotics and painkillers into my mouth. Dr. Kaufman and his assistant had to keep reminding me to breathe through my nose. That helped. The waxy taste of the numbing gel hit me before I felt the slight prick of the Novacaine injection. I instantly started playing the Green Day song in my head. My body tensed at the first application of pressure to my left bottom tooth, wincing a little at the sound of a crack, but eased as Dr. Kaufman spritzed water and applied gauze to the wound.
“First tooth is out,” he said. “You’re doing fantastic, Rachel.” It wasn’t so bad, and neither were the three remaining ones he pulled over the course of the next forty-five minutes. Maybe I had built this up just a little too high in my head for the last eleven years.
Max and my mother were surprised to see me looking relatively normal as I returned to the waiting room. My lips were still too numb to speak, so I handed them the aftercare instructions and communicated via note paper for the next few hours. I was supposed to keep icing my face for the rest of the day and eating soft, cold foods while resting. No alcohol. No teeth brushing. No excessive use of energy. They set me up on the couch in my apartment with the television remote and pillows, encouraging me to relax.
I managed to do this until the numbness wore off. Then I got stir crazy, strolling around the place like a lost pigeon looking for bread. I felt guilty for not being productive despite the doctor's orders and beat myself up about it. This carried over into Saturday, where I thankfully didn’t experience any new bleeding or extra swelling, but did grow hungry.
“I’m sick of ice cream and pudding and sugar,” I said, watching endless commercials for Burger King chicken fries and Outback steaks in between Premier League match coverage.
Max laughed. “Not a problem I can relate to.” He has the biggest sweet tooth I’ve ever known.
My mother kindly stocked the refrigerator with chilled and frozen delights. She also brought flowers and a smoothie before heading home. It was lovely and considerate, but it wasn’t cutting my cravings for the salty and savoury. I started looking at pictures on my phone of old meals and swore I could smell them through the screen as I choked down antibiotics.
Max went out midday to run an errand. I sniffed the air as he returned. “Did you eat…lunch?” I asked.
“A burger at the place down the street,” he said, taking off his coat. “Why?”
I got up and threw my arms around him, taking in a big sniff of the beef, ketchup, and french fry scent that lingered on his sweater. “I have never been more attracted to you in my life.”
It’s been five days now since the teeth came out and slowly my mouth has adapted to its new, less crowded normal. I’m still tender and with stitches and on taking medication, though I do feel well enough to manage an extended list of foods, including soft noodles and grilled goat cheese sandwiches. This newsletter is also proof I’m doing something in response to my pesky workaholic cravings.
I wish I could tell you this procedure taught me how to listen to my body’s needs. Alas, I still lack this ability. But it did help with some of my general anxiety around healthcare. Oftentimes things like procedures and appointments and recovery are worse in our minds than they are in reality, at least when it comes to my fatalistic brain. Instead of listening to those terrible thoughts, it’s best to just do the occasionally expensive yet responsible thing. I’ll try to remember that next time I have an email about scheduling an annual exam, or feel the urge to put my work ethic over my well-being.
People’s jobs give them sick days for a reason. Don’t be afraid to take them if your body needs. And never feel bad consuming lots of ice cream. Doctor’s orders.
(A reminder: if you enjoy these newsletters, don’t forget to leave a heart and/or comment!)
Rachel’s Weekly Recs:
Saxx and Hanky Panky have partnered for His and Hers packs this V-day, allowing lads and ladies to don matching undies this loving season. Perfect for the partner who appreciates a cheeky gift. Be aware, though, the boxers are S-XL but the thong is one size.
Charlotte Ivers’s column in The Times in response to the Swedish survey showing how men are unhappy making less than their female partners has lived rent free in my mind for two weeks. I always appreciate Ivers’s cutting voice, but this in particular touches upon a number of things that worry me. Glad to know I’m not alone.
After a few years away from streaming services, 1990s dramedy Ally McBeal is on Hulu. And thank god. Join Bostonian lawyer Ally and her quirky, sexually charged colleagues at Cage, Fish, and Associates as they tackle personal and professional cases. It’s offbeat at its best.
And now they are indeed out and you were a trooper pumpkin. Love you.
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