Lost in Seattle

I went to the dentist today, which until recently was quite a fearful experience for me. A trip to the dentist always makes me think of the time I had my wisdom teeth extracted by an insane doctor with a bit of an anger problem.

I was 19 and my dentist, who was a wonderful, funny man, determined that all four of my wisdom teeth were “impacted” and needed to come out. He recommend an oral surgeon who had an office just up the street. On the day of the appointment, I was nervous enough because of the nature of the operation, but little did I know that that was really the least at my concerns.

I had the first appointment of the day. The office was bustling with activity: hygienists and assistants busily preparing the rooms, the receptionist checking the appointment book and calling her reminders. When the doctor breezed through, I swore I felt a wave of tension ripple though the office, but I wrote it off to my own nervousness.

I was heartened when I finally met the doctor in the operating room. He was friendly as he explained the procedure to me and seemed like a nice man. Besides, I thought, my dentist recommended him. He then instructed the assistant to start my nitrous oxide as he prepared for surgery.

But something was wrong. I didn’t know it then, but someone had forgotten to turn on the main gas line so the nitrous wasn’t flowing. The doctor was visibly irritated and left the room.

Suddenly, the doctor’s raging vote boomed throughout the office. He was yelling at everyone aid they were yelling back. I was frozen to the chair in fear. The doctor’s assistant tried to appear calm, but I could tell she was terrified as well. After several angry rounds of shouting, the doctor announced that everyone was fired. One by one, I saw the employees walk by the little operating Room and leave. The assistant tried to sound reassuring by telling me that he does this every now and then. “We usually go down the street to the coffee shop,” she explained, “and just wait for him to cool down.”

Eventually, the doctor returned to the room all prepped for surgery. I thought about leaving, but decided to just get it over with. The nitrous oxide mask was placed over my nose, and I inhaled until I blacked out.

At some point mid-way though the procedure I awoke and coughed up bloody spittle which sprayed into the doctor’s face. This triggered another violent outburst and he threw his implements to the floor and raged: “I can’t work under these conditions!” before storming out. Momentarily shocked out at by gas-induced stupor, I wondered if he was coming back. I could feel blood drip down the sides of my mouth and realized that I probably had huge surgical incisions in my mouth. Thankfully, the doctor retuned, this time with a clear plastic face mask and another joyful smile. He resumed his work and I inhaled like hell until I passed out again.

When I awoke, the procedure was over, my mouth and jaw were sore, and I felt hungover. I remember very little of the ride home. My girlfriend, Rachel, stopped by to bring me flowers late that day and I could barely move my lips to say “thank you.” I figured some residual pain and tightness was normal, but the pain did not subside for four days. By this time, a yellow bruise outlined in purple and blue had appeared on my lower face and ran down to my chest. My gums felt tight, like they were being stretched or a rack. I vaguely recalled the doctor’s warning that continued pain was an indication of “dry socket” - a condition in which ore or more of the holes let from the tooth removal dries out before healing. Could this be happening to me? Did I have four dry sockets? Reluctantly, I called and made an appointment for the next day. Upon arrival to the office I noted that everyone who had been “fired” earlier that week was back. One of the assistants took me back to the operating room and prepped me for the doctor to “go back in.”

After she took out the stitches, however, the pain immediately disappeared. The doctor entered wearing his clear plastic Stormtrooper mask and full surgical gear, but I stopped him and announced that the pain was gone. He grunted a bit angrily and muttered something about the stitches being too tight, and left the room.

I imagined the doctor pressing his foot against my chest, pulling both ends of the stitching thread like Mammie lacing up Scarlet O’Hara in her corset in retaliation for my spitting bloody saliva on him. But, in reality, it was probably his assistant who stitched me up and he was just then on his way back to scream at her and fire his staff again. I never found out; I grabbed my coat and got the hell out of there and did not see a dentist for another six years.