The Worst Part of Having My Wisdom Teeth Removed

I've told this story on several occasions, mostly when I hear folks talking about trips to the dentist. Almost twenty years ago I had my wisdom teeth extracted after years of dealing with them moving up and down, cutting through my gums and sending me into fits of rage that can only be compared with driving in Atlanta, Georgia.


I was twenty-nine years old, married and the father of two fine daughters and a son. I had long hair (one length, having left my mullet days behind me a couple years earlier), chewed tobacco, cheered for the Crimson Tide, and had four teeth that were placed in my mouth to test my tolerance, patience, and understanding of anyone in my way. They hurt, and would cut through my gums monthly like a baby teething. I would salivate and catch drool as it ran down my chin. Sometimes I didn't even bother to wipe it off.


Eventually, I couldn't take it anymore and made an appointment with an oral surgeon to, as he explained, "extract my wisdom teeth." Later, I would learn that 'extraction' was a fancy term used to leave four massive pockets in my gums that would heal at approximately the same rate of time that it took Moses and his followers to find the Promised Land. He wrote me a prescription for a Valium, told me to take it one hour before my appointment then bid me farewell.


The day of my surgery rolled around, and as instructed, I took my Valium and headed to his office. I completed my paperwork and spoke with the admin about my procedure, when she interrupted and inquired, "Did you take the Valium like you were told?"


"Sure did, but I'm not feeling anything. Shouldn't I be loopy or something?" I asked.


"Yep. I'm going to have the doctor give you another one. Wait here," she replied.


A couple moments later she returned with my second Valium, which I took dutifully before having a seat in the waiting area.


Twenty minutes later I was being hustled to the back of the assembly line, er operating room, where the doctor promised to put me to sleep, remove the teeth, then send me on my way. I received an injection of some sort, and was told to breath deeply into the mask placed over my nose. Still, the Valium refused to play nice, so I was counting on whatever concoction the good doctor had conjured up to knock me out.


A few minutes later, I sat in the chair, my mouth stuffed with gauze and a contraption to hold my mouth open that could only remind me of the Gimp scene in Pulp Fiction. It was uncomfortable and a little embarrassing, but I took solace in the fact that I would soon be sound asleep and as uncaring as a deer just as the cross-hairs were placed on its heart by some happy hunter.


"Um, Mr. Upton," the surgeon began, "I'm going to gas you again because you haven't fallen asleep."

I grunted something unintelligible through circus contraption stuffed into my mouth. He obviously took that as an "okay," because the mask was once again placed over my mouth and nose and I was instructed to breath deeply. I'm pretty sure I inhaled the entire tank placed behind my chair, and wanted desperately to speak to see if my voice changed pitch like it would when I inhaled helium. That was a "no go," as the doctor tapped his foot impatiently while he waited for me to pass out.


"Sir. I have no idea why you aren't asleep, but I cannot legally give you anything else, because you will likely die," the doctor stated.


*Another series of grunts from me*


"I understand, but we've got to take those teeth out," he responded to my Neanderthal sounds.


*My eyes get really, really wide and I emanate a series of sounds that were probably laced with a string of expletives that he either understood or anticipated*


"Right. I'm going to numb your mouth with a series of locals then we're going to take those teeth out," he explained.


On my right side, I realized the good doctor was paying a lady to do nothing but gently stroke my arm and hand in hopes of calming me down. It wasn't working, but I appreciated her dedication. I turned my focus back to the doctor who was holding a stainless steel syringe with a needle that, if laid on the ground, could have easily shown a football team how far they needed to travel to be awarded a first down.


*A much louder series of grunts spew forth from my gauze packed, Gimp lined mouth. I thrashed about in my chair as the hygienist continued stroking my arm. I thought about going Total Recall on her and choking her into submission, but I'm a gentleman and focused my Hulk-like tendencies on the doctor*


He jabbed the first needle into the roof of my mouth. I'm not 100% certain, but I think he took three steps backward to avoid the punch he was sure was about to be launched. A second time he came at me with his stainless torture device then plunged the needle deep into my gums. I focused on his testicles and was on the verge of sending them into orbit when he took another fast step backward.


"This guy is pretty quick," I thought.


Four more shots and he said, "I think we're ready to begin the extraction."


He asked his assistant for a tool that looked like a Viet Cong truth instrument and a flathead screwdriver.


My next thought was, "I wanted him to take my teeth out, not change the lock in my mouth.  WTF?!"  I don't know if Internet acronyms were around then, but you get my drift.


The doctor slid a knee onto my thigh and remarked, "I can't believe you're still awake."


*I grunted something along the lines of agreement*


His knee slipped into groin and I screamed. The doctor apologized and must have seen my skin beginning to turn green. The hygienist rubbed my arm vigorously. Cautiously, he returned to my mouth with his chisel and array of death tools and began hammering on my mouth. His knee slipped back into my testicles.


Did you know there is a distinction in the shades of red when a person is embarrassed and another person is insane with rage? The Massaging Hygienist made this incredible revelation as my eyes tracked on the doctor while he moved to the side of my chair, obviously hesitant to replace his knee on my neighbor and his two friends.


After a couple eternities, the doctor had removed my four wisdom teeth, and held them proudly in front of my face. I couldn't feel my mouth, but my testicles felt like a well used punching bag and the hair on my right arm had been removed by The Massaging Hygienist.


I got home and my wife and kids decided they needed to take a nap as badly as I did. I laid down on the couch and drifted off, remembering the warning I had been given before leaving the dentist's office, "Don't try to go to the bathroom by yourself. You've lost a lot of blood, have a lot of drugs in your system, and you could injure yourself without help."


I woke up on the couch and to a quiet house. Everyone was still asleep except for yours truly. I did what most normal people did after having teeth pulled--I felt around my mouth with my tongue. Gauze piece number one: check. Two: check. Three: check. Four: It was MIA.


"You've got to be kidding me. I swallowed that nasty thing while I slept?" I thought to myself.


It was then I realized two things: one, I had to pee, and two, I wasn't going to ask anyone for help because I had been peeing on my own most of my adult life, or maybe longer...I couldn't really be sure.


I stumbled down the hallway, making it about halfway before dizziness set in and I thought I would pass out. My shoulder hit the wall and I trudged forward like a good soldier on a mission to find the enemy, or in my case, go pee. I managed the sharp right turn into my bathroom, dropped my pants and sat down on the toilet like a girl. I'm not even afraid to admit this to you, Faithful Reader. My head was spinning like a strobe light in a redneck bar.


Once I was finished with my business, I drug myself back down the hallway and turned into the living room in search of our couch. The coffee table that I so hated was laying in front, as though to mock me for the unfounded vitriol I felt for it. (I can't really explain my disdain for coffee tables, but I really do detest them.)


My pillow was within sight. I took two big steps toward the couch, ready to plop down and go back to sleep, but as I did so, I slammed my left pinky toe into that bastardly coffee table. In my head I could have sworn I heard it laugh. The drugs the doctor had hit me with earlier must have had a delayed effect on me, because as I lay down I glanced at my left foot. Blood oozed from the toe that used to look like its nine brothers. Now, the tip of my left pinky toe stared straight up at me.


"Man," I mumbled, "that is going to hurt when I wake up."


And THAT was the worst part of having my wisdom teeth removed.

Spring Time and Stuff

This is both my favorite and least favorite time of the year. Why? The days get much longer and warmer, and yes that is a good thing, in my opinion. But the new greenery is predicated by copious amounts of pollen, which seep into my sinus cavity then down to my chest like a slow moving predator that slowly eats its prey a small morsel at a time. I hack and cough, sputter and whine for a couple weeks until my body slowly acclimates to the seasonal change. I suppose you could say I go through a transition (since that term is used like syrup on pancakes these days).


That said, the best part of Spring for me is my prospective garden. It's that time of year that I break out my tiller, spend lots of money on dirt (what??) and plants so I can eat something I could most likely buy cheaper at the store.


On the downside, I have to mow every weekend, and since Cathy and I maintain two households, that means mowing two yards. Just yesterday I pulled the ole push mower out, hit a piece of chert (that's a sharp porous rock for those who have never seen it), watched a spark fly from under the mower deck and a small piece of the rock remove a quarter sized piece of my epidermis on my left leg. Yeah, that was pleasant.


There is an area in our back yard that we have chosen as the site of our garden. Morning and afternoon sun shine down on it like a cop's spotlight in a methhead's face on the side of Interstate 20 in Atlanta. It's a glorious thing. And we have tall pines in the back that provide shade for the garden during the hottest part of the day. I anticipate a wonderfully tasty haul of fruits, vegetables, and herbs this coming year. 😊


Heck, I really have no problem weeding the garden, as it gives me peace of mind to be one with the tomatoes. In fact, bringing a timely and immediate death to those garden invaders brings a smile to my face. It's an enjoyable experience when you pull a weed up by the roots and throw it to the side so it dries out like clay in a kiln.


So, y'all get out there and enjoy your Spring and Summer. I look forward to sharing photos of our garden as it grows and will most likely share some shots of Cathy's miraculous food she prepares with our fresh fruits and veggies.

Peace, love, and okra to all y'all!  

Will the Real Liberal Please Stand Up Pt. 9 (peractum est opus)

Like all languages, English has evolved over generations of speakers. It is hardly recognizable from its centuries old England born great-great-grandfather, from whence its complicated rules of grammar were developed and refined. Dialects aside, a general comparison of English spoken in the United States versus that spoken in England, Scotland, or Ireland can sometimes leave the listener wondering how on earth the two are related.


Also, as with most languages spoken globally (I would say all, but I don't know if that is entirely accurate), English was modified, codified, and morphed by men.  For eons, men worked outside the home, interacted with other men on their respective job--IE. farming, trades, etc.--and developed new words as a result.


Prior to, but mostly after the women's suffrage movement did a push begin by ultra-feminists to make English less masculine and more gender neutral. Their argument has been that many words in the English language denote feelings, anxieties, and a plethora of other emotions and actions that are largely masculine in nature. One gross mischaracterization is the use of the word men when speaking neutrally about mankind, or all men being created equally. The obvious intent is gender neutrality, at least as perceived in the twenty-first century.


Leftists feminists have pushed the envelope for a gender neutral language since their inclusion in modern academia. On the surface, the movement seems less abhorrent than it truly is. After all, what is wrong with equality in language?


To answer this question, one must consider the extreme leftist movement of the 1960's in conjunction with similar socialist movements throughout Europe. De-gendering the language means controlling it. When language is controlled, media is subsequently folded neatly into a box that, once pushed inside, cannot be undone.


Once print and electronic media is managed on a large scale, thought and actions are much easier controlled. You may be asking, "What is the point in all this?"


The obvious answer is manipulation. The less obvious response is political activism. Imagine if you can, everyone suddenly becoming offended by something spoken or written. Despite the unlikeliness of this ever happening, consider if you would George Orwell's 1984, a novel depicting a futuristic world where only one crime could be committed--thinking outside the established status quo.


Now, you may already be thinking, "But so many are offended by the silliest of things these days!" You would be correct in your assumption, and see beyond the blatant attempt at sarcasm I posed in the previous paragraph.


Should we allow our politicians and the academics of the nation control our language, both spoken and written, we are doomed as a society. I'm not merely speaking about our First Amendment rights, but more along the lines of thought control. Yes, it is plausible, and yes, it is happening.


To control your words is to control your thoughts, your actions, and your ability to resist their brand of politics. I say to you: resist the urge to conform!