Brandon Carter - Utah Freelance Writer

My entire life the dentists I’ve been to have all told me that there was no need to remove my wisdom teeth. They were growing in fine and generally an excellent addition to a subpar group of chompers overall.

Then I moved to Utah and all the dentists here said I needed to have them out. I trust them here, because approximately 60% of the population here are dentists. So instead of having mine yanked out around high school like most other folks, I had mine extracted at 28.

This is my sad, sad story.

15 minutes!
That’s right, 15 minutes.

Basically we walked in the door at 9a.m., just ahead of a 17’ish girl who was probably also having her teeth yanked. Within 3 minutes I was getting a needle stuck in my arm and fading to black.

Just before I went out, I managed to make sure the people in the room knew I wanted the teeth. I don’t know what they usually do with teeth, and to be truthful, I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do with the teeth… I just wanted them. They were in my mouth for 28 years (I guess less, but still…), I want them to come home with me.

Which makes me wonder if people who lose other body parts are allowed to keep them.

Personally, if I had to lose an arm or something, I would want it. Unless they were going to donate it to a poor, armless person or something.

I would keep it in formaldehyde and pull it out for guests, maybe slap them around a little bit. Maybe tuck it into a sleeve then have it fall off when shaking someone’s hand and be like “Ahhhh! You tore my arm off you strong bastard! Ahhhh!”

Or if I lost fingers, I could preserve them and scare kids at Halloween or hide them under my wife’s pillow.

Anyways.

The surgeon was done with me after 15 minutes. My teeth were grown out pretty much all the way, but that’s still some serious hacking. After a few minutes in the recovery room, Lori and Nate came and put me into the car.

This is what I do!
I remember none of this:



While in the car, it seems I was pretty desperate to get a gory shot of my bloody mess, so I tried to stick my iPhone in my mouth. When Lori objected, I told her “this is what I do!”

Which is mostly accurate, when you think about it. I do weird crap like that all the time. I’m a slut for the shocked reaction.

After getting a good photo, I rolled down the window to try and spit some blood out of the car. I don’t think I said it again, but it’s the type of thing I do frequently, mouth surgery be damned.

Back Home
Lori put me straight to bed when we got home and I snoozed off an on for the next few hours, waking up to take more painkillers and penicillin.

At 3, I woke up and decided to work. Remarkably, all of the emails I sent out over the next two hours were coherent and on-target. This is now what I usually do.

By the way, those cotton swabs they put in your mouth are horrible. I know they’re supposed to help create clots that are crucial to healing, but sweet Lord they’re awful.

Hydrocodone
I was excited at the prospect of spending a few days doped out of my mind, because it sounded fun and was better than PAIN.

I also watch Intervention and knew the stuff could stick with me for a lifetime of numbed insanity if I didn’t keep it under control.

Not a problem. The first 24 hours were bliss, but around Wednesday night, approximately 36 hours after the surgery, my world turned to crap.

I could sleep during the day but was constantly itchy. I couldn’t sleep during the night and even began hallucinating.

I was riding a unicorn and eating a deer. Not a deer leg or other small part, but a full on deer, biting chunks of hair and raw meat. I was wholly convinced it was real.

Then I would come back to the real world, where I vibrated and shook rapidly. Not a violent, crackhead shake, just like sitting in one of the nice chairs at Brookstone. Still, I wanted to sleep, not vibrate.

I sat and took notes from the stream of consciousness that poured through my head, and it was some great stuff. I wrote out political theories, diatribes (politically-minded white guy who hates Kanye West for the things he says yet worships at the altar of Glenn Beck or Rush Limbaugh is an unfailing megadouche for lack of his own awareness) and other nonsense/genius.

(My all-time favorite: I love how “right-wing political activist”, “religious kook”, and “world-ending conspiracy goof” have all merged into one Mighty Morphin Power Douche.)

By Friday morning I was exhausted, itchy, dizzy, nauseous and teetering on oblivion. I ditched the drugs, and vowed to not mess with hydrocodone again. I still may end up on Intervention, but it’ll have to be for something else.

Where are we now?
Good question. I made it through the weekend just fine, except for one rough night when I developed a sudden cold and had to breath through my mouth. The cold air constantly hitting my empty sockets caused me to wake up about 3a.m. in intense butthurt.

I managed to remove most of my stitches via tongue harassment but I don’t think it hurt anything. Last night I dug some random chunks of food out of the holes, which are now close to being sealed off. I regret not having photos to share of this.

In fact, I wouldn’t be in any pain at the moment if not for dueling abscesses on my cheek caused by a couple stitch knots popping out.

Happy Holidays!