a word to the wise
no one ever talks about bubblegum fluoride
My wisdom teeth are coming in.
People get a terrified look in their eyes when I tell them I can feel the one on the top left poking through my gums. I can only feel one right now. The others still lay dormant somewhere between my jaw and mouth.
Based on the X-rays, I should be fine. At least for a little while.
Last time I went to the dentist, I lay in the chair with a TV playing Zootopia three feet above my head, wearing a communal pair of sunglasses despite the pair I had come in with, and the hygienist seemed unconcerned with the emerging teeth. The fox decal on the wall stared at me as she surveyed the state of my teeth. Nick Wilde stared down at me as I politely declined the bubblegum-flavored fluoride she offered me.
She proceeded to poke and prod around in my mouth, recounting the importance of limiting my coffee intake and flossing properly and wearing my retainers—the same spiel I’ve heard since I was a child.
I left the appointment twenty minutes later with a bag containing toothpaste, a toothbrush, and a pamphlet on how to properly brush my teeth. She threw in a set of flossers that were meant to help me floss around the little mound of enamel blooming in the depths of my mouth.
Truth be told, I am so scared of having my wisdom teeth removed. Terrified. My stomach churns at the idea of having stitches deep in the recesses of my mouth, of having to taste gauze soaked in saliva-diluted blood, of having swollen cheeks, of the implications of using a straw too soon after.
If statistics are anything to go by, I will have to get them removed sooner or later—but hopefully later. I know this in the same way I know I should be drinking significantly less coffee. In the same way I know I should be saving more money. In the same way I know I should find more time to call my friends. In the same way I know I need to remember not to forget to pop my retainer in before I go to sleep.
The unfortunate truth is that pushing off the inevitable is familiar and so, so easy.
It’s a universal habit. Against our better judgment, we cannot endure the immediate cost of delayed gratification. Leaving dishes in the sink, pushing assignments off until the last minute, ignoring conversations in hopes problems disappear instead of fester. But they always fester.
Fester until the only way to control the damage is to stuff the wound with gauzy filler and avoid anything that might pull it loose. Fester until unnecessary teeth push perfectly straight canines and incisors—masterpieces of orthodontic precision—out of alignment. Fester until it’s impossible to ignore.
Ancient civilizations believed that the third molars erupted concurrently with maturity. A symbol of adulthood, of having a sound mind to accompany a fully-grown body. Funny how, now, one of the first acts of maturity is to have our wisdom teeth removed.
But there are other acts of maturity that supersede the pain of a dental procedure. Finding insurance once you’re too old to stay on your parents' plan. Apartment hunting. Getting a new, non-pediatric doctor. Moving. Managing money. Staying in contact with friends from high school, from middle school, from all those random places friends accumulate over time. Finding a job.
I have a feeling jumping into these pains headfirst is the only way to manage the ache.
Gums don’t bleed when you floss every day.
But what would I know—I still have my wisdom teeth.
