While I was out.

Near the end of my senior year of high school my mother informed me that I would have my wisdom teeth removed from my head. This did not seem like the best graduation gift I’d ever heard of, but I wasn’t too concerned. I grew up in a house full of doctors where it was not uncommon to discuss procedures over dinner. (The story about the patient who cut his knee cap off with a chainsaw was especially memorable on brisket night.) So I wasn’t too worried about going under the knife for something routine.

I got dropped off at the oral surgeon’s office in a pink stucco strip mall not too far from my parent’s house. The interior theme matched the exterior paint, pink hued seashells lined the wall paper and some fake white orchids rested in a large vase on the counter. After filling out all of the tedious medical releases and reassuring the nurse that I had no allergies, the surgeon came in to speak with me. He placed a large plastic cloth over my chest and asked me if I was scared about the impending procedure.

I told him that I was not, but that I did have a request. It seemed like a pretty obvious request to me. Certainly most other people who had their wisdom teeth removed asked for the same thing. I faced the surgeon and said, “I would like to keep my teeth when you are done.” And to his credit, the surgeon didn’t ask why or even blink; he just nodded and called the nurse in to prep me for surgery.

I laid back in the chair as it tilted to horizontal and the nurse placed the cold rubbery mask over my mouth and nose. I could barely hear her voice over the hiss of gas while she asked me to count backwards from ten. The anesthesia must have been quite effective, or the nurse must have found a vein especially quickly because I didn’t make it past nine before everything went to black.



I awoke sitting in a chair by myself. It might have been hours later, I had no way to tell. My cheeks were stuffed with gauze and my chin was lightly crusted with dried blood. I didn’t know where I was or who had left me in the chair, but after looking around the room I knew one thing for sure, that surgeon had lied to me! My teeth were nowhere in sight.

So naturally, I got up to search for the surgeon’s hidden stash of post-operative wisdom teeth. I wasn’t so naïve as to think that he kept them in a pile under a pillow somewhere, but I figured that the medical staff had simply forgotten my special request and I wanted to make sure to find the teeth before they were lost.

I dragged my heavy limbs out of the chair and made my way out the door and down the hall in search of my promised teeth. I walked down the empty hallway until I came across a small window inset in a door. I pressed my bloody swollen face to the window and tried to focus my eyes. Inside I could see several people in scrubs surrounding a table. Obviously this was the surgeon who had my teeth. So I politely inquired through the glass if I could have my teeth back. However, as I was still coming out from under the anesthesia and my mouth was stuffed with gauze this came out more like, “TEEEEEEEFF!”

One of the nurses looked up from the surgery table and quickly rushed over to the door. She pried me away from the window and escorted me back down to my chair. I tried again to eloquently express my desire for my missing teeth. “TEEEEEEFF!” Apparently she was well versed in the inane cries of the recently detoothed, because she knew exactly what I meant and broke the bad news to me. It turns out that the removal of wisdom teeth is a fairly violent procedure that involves cracking and splitting the teeth. All that was left were small shards of enamel and dentin. I later learned that the surgeon assumed I was joking when I asked to keep my teeth. He figured that I was nervous and trying to make light of the situation.

I was disappointed and over the next few days while I recovered from the surgery I consoled myself by researching local taxidermy and medical supply shops. I would someday have my necklace of teeth, it just might take a little bit longer than I realized.