A unique experience in the life of someone in her forties. I’m teething.

Or, at least, my body wants to THINK that I’m teething.

See, due to genetics and good luck, I’ve never had any wisdom teeth. That is to say that I HAVE them, but they’ve never come in. Ever since the 12 year molar on the lower right side decided that it wanted to come in with the crown of the tooth rotated towards my tongue, the series of dentists that I’ve dealt with over the years has been drooling (sorry, couldn’t resist) over my wisdom teeth.
That was the year that our childhood dentist, Dr. Lillywhite (no shit) told me “When you get home you have your mother give me a call. I think you’re going to need braces!”

An aside — Isn’t that the dumbest thing that ANY dentist could say to ANY kid? I mean, did he REALLY think that I was going to have my mother call him so I could voluntarily subject myself to four or five years or orthodontia? How naive can you get? Trusting an 11 year old to volunteer the information to her parents that the dentist wants to spend years attaching bits of metal to her teeth is like trusting a fox that tells you it won’t kill the chickens in your henhouse.

To get back to the main point though, I never had my mother call the dentist (and if it were that important, why didn’t he call her himself?!) and I never ended up with braces. My teeth are fine, it’s just that one molar that’s a little strange. Goes along well with the rest of me.

The full facial x-rays that the dentist takes once a year have remained pretty spooky. The wisdom teeth are there, it’s just that they’re rotated 90 degrees and the crowns are pointed rostrally -forwards that is. If they ever decide to move around they’re going to put pressure on the roots of the teeth in front of them and cause all sorts of chaos. But since they’ve never been an issue, and since I’d seen the remains of my sister and brother after THEY had their wisdom teeth out, I’ve been remarkably reluctant to voluntarily subject myself to facial deconstruction just for the sake of having a happy dentist. I’ve been annoying to my current dentist for almost 10 years because I have continually refused her referrals to an oral surgeon.

Until about two Fridays ago when I was brushing my teeth before work and it felt like the crown that’s in the last molar tooth on the upper right was going to fall out. Now THAT got my attention. I went to work, I called the dentist who, of course, doesn’t work on Fridays and carried my mobile phone with me all day so I could catch her when she called back and answered the message I’d left on her emergency number. I was seen on an emergency visit the next Monday, poked, tapped, radiographed and told, of course, that the only notable abnormality was the wisdom tooth and that I should bloody well go and see the damnable oral surgeon.

Which is what I’m waiting to do. Because of my exquisite sense of timing, my odd work schedule, and the oral surgeon’s schedule they couldn’t see me until the 24th. If everything goes *HAH* well the surgery is scheduled for the next week.
In the mean time I’m left with a very much greater understanding of why teething children drool and scream a lot. I don’t suppose that I could get away with it at my age, but it has been tempting. Isn’t whiskey supposed to help when a child is teething? I’m not so fond of whiskey, but I’ve got a nice bottle of rum that might do a lot to improve my state of mind.
All I can say is that the tooth fairy better bloody well appreciate this!