The Wisdom Tooth Incident by Kellie Morin


Let me just start by saying this. I loathe conformity. I do nothing by the book. I don’t even own the book. In fact if someone were foolish enough to give me the book as a gift? I would re-gift it immediately. That said, I must inform you that this series on my family will not, under any circumstances, be presented to you in any semblance of order. Chronological? I think not. I plan to throw it at you as it comes to me and leave it to you to piece it together. It will be like a little “activity” for you. Not that it makes a difference really. You’ll still get to know them…and I guarantee you’ll still enjoy the process.

I was a sickly child. A pathetic mess really. I suffered from petit mal epileptic seizures, asthma, bronchitis, and was allergic to basically everything in the free world not attached directly to my body. My brother would sit next to me and count my sneezes in the voice of the Count from Sesame Street. “Vun, vunderful sneeze!” I regularly achieved numbers in the 30’s. He would eventually get slammed through a wall…and deservedly so. His fault for mocking me within reach. We enjoyed regular family outings to Boston Children’s Hospital where we spent quality time together as the doctors attached electrodes to my head to monitor my brain activity and then attempted to get me to sleep. This was a hilarious endeavor considering I was also a hyperactive spaz.

I tell you this not to elicit pity, but rather to qualify my mother’s entirely understandable reaction when at 20 years of age it was decided I should have all four wisdom teeth pulled at the same time, two of which were deeply impacted. After the years of torment associated with being the mother of a medical anomaly, she was entirely over it. I mean waaaaaay over it. So she informed my father that it was to be he who was charged with the task of carting me to the dreaded oral surgeon of death.

Well, I’ve told you he was the third child. Now let me enlighten you a bit more on Dave Morin. There was nothing, and I do mean NOTHING, that could fluster this man. He could careen sideways through a guard rail, slam down the side of a mountain into a ditch, emerge from the car, and casually pick up his severed arm and say, “dang.” He was by far the most phlegmatic human being on this Earth (much to my mother’s chagrin…but we’ll save that for another time). You will never get the opportunity to meet Dave Morin in person, but in this story, which completely encapsulates who he was, I’ve found a way to introduce him to you. After reading this account, you will have met him. So here goes…

We arrive at the chamber of unspeakable horrors. He kicks back in a waiting room chair. I sit next to him and proceed to convulse. He is entirely oblivious to this, which I find thoroughly infuriating, yet also somewhat calming. Just as I approach a somewhat regular heartbeat and resume a normal breathing pattern, out walks the hideous wretch…I mean nurse…who will lead me to what I’m certain will be one step short of death. She gets me in the chair, and in walks the oral surgeon, who I’m thrilled to report very closely resembles Lurch from the Addams Family. How comforting. He steps forward, fangs dripping, and in his gnarled, monstrous hand I see a needle the size of a fencing sword. He proceeds to entirely miss the vein in my arm not once, not twice, but three times. This results in a small but hideous parade of bruises down my arm. “Yup…thanks for making me look like a heroin addict. Very nice.”

I start counting backward from 100 paralyzed in my certainty that the nitrous oxide will NOT take effect. I’ll be incapacitated just enough that I can’t signal them, but just conscious enough to feel the entire procedure. I make it as far as 98…gone. The joyful bliss continues as I wake up crying. I guess it’s the lesser of 2 evils considering another common reaction to nitrous oxide is to wake up vomiting. I’ll take the tears thanks. As the embarrassing reaction subsides, I immediately become aware of a much more pressing issue. The entire lower half of my face is gone. Someone has taken my mouth completely off. How will I communicate?? I’ll have to carry around a pad and pen! And people will point and stare.

Mothers will throw themselves in front of their children to shield them from the hideous visage that is now me! And most importantly…how will I fold sheets??!! Oh no wait…it’s still there. It’s just mangled beyond recognition. Ok, that’s muuuuuch better. The space where my mouth used to be is now really just a bloody, gauze-filled, throbbing cavern, which is of no use to me whatsoever. As I lie there thinking about how I’ll never walk again, I get pulled from the chair and taken into the recovery room which will also be of no use to me as I’m quite certain at this point that I shall never recover.

As I lie wondering why there is even such a thing as wisdom teeth to begin with…in walks my father. Yup, there he is. And here he comes. Saunters casually over to me as though he’s taking an afternoon stroll through the park and contemplating his navel. Takes the seat next to my wretched, prone form. Fatherly concern? Nope. An iota of sympathy? Uh uh. Looks at me disinterestedly for a moment and then leans back and thrusts his hand in the pocket of his jeans. I watch through slanted, wary eyes waiting to see what he’s up to and then there it is. Holds out his hand and its contents and says, completely straight-faced, “Piece of gum?”

I begin to laugh and my head explodes. Vintage Dave. Ya gotta love it.

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About the Author;
Kellie Morin is a professional freelance writer from central Massachusetts who loves her family and life. You'll enjoy her heartfelt style. Kellie can be reached at Kellie@boomerjournals.com