Can You Feel That?

***Trigger warning: This story has been intentionally enhanced and contains some innuendo for humorous effect - it does not necessarily reflect my true feelings and beliefs, nor is it meant to reflect poorly on anyone except maybe myself. But if that gives you the ick, skip this one!***

My wisdom tooth followup appointment was such a unique experience.

My surgeon reminds me of a medical resident I used to work with.  Looks twelve, attractive and well kept, but you can just tell they were the oddball in school.  And zero sense of humor, not even a smile other than a robotic one upon meeting.

He asked me to open wide (I can’t, my jaw is so swollen and sore) and starts poking around at my stitches.  I stared into his eyes (blinding myself with his headlamp in the process) and considered that he was probably uncomfortably close to my age.

I’m not used to that - more and more employees of various professions are now YOUNGER than me.  Gone are the days where everyone was way older than me! It’s so weird though. Doctors should be old, it’s less weird that way. 

Without warning, this man crams both hands into my mouth with such sudden gusto that it reminds me of the crocodile hunter pouncing on some sort of quick, slippery reptile. He then uses eight fingers to stroke the insides of my cheeks vigorously. “Can you feel that?”

EXCUSE ME SIR but I would appreciate a little more warning next time you plan to take an Olympic dive elbow deep into my tonsils. I came here to get my wisdom teeth checked out, not a damn Pap smear, although it certainly feels like he wouldn’t have to reach much farther to do that for me too.  For heaven’s sake, most men have the decency to buy me dinner first before getting elbow deep in any of my orifices.

I nodded my confirmation that I can, indeed, feel each individual finger and I will in fact be aiming for you if all this jostling of my uvula hits my gag reflex wrong and makes me barf. What is the etiquette here? Should I blink twice for yes and once for no? I have no idea how he can tell yes from no but I guess he has practice with this sort of thing. 

“Okay good.” He yanks a fist around my tongue and runs his fingers on the front and back of it. This sounds like a scene in a naughty novel at this point but I assure you it sadly did not resemble that at all in real life - I was drooling and my eyes were watering but not for any enjoyable, fun, or naughty reason.  

“Can you feel that?” Yes, daddy. What? I mean yep! 

This surgeon explored every inch of my mouth in the least fun way I can possibly imagine and with the least amount of enthusiasm I have ever witnessed from anyone privileged enough to do so!  The nerve!  

Yes, the nerve… Actually.  The actual nerve. He was doing an assessment of each of my facial nerves to make sure he didn’t hurt the gigantic one running along my jaw - A concern of mine, since I had a sideways, infected tooth butted right up against that nerve.  

There was a decent possibility that getting this surgery would disturb that delicate nerve and cause me to lose sensation in most of my face, or live in perpetual facial pain, so it was absolutely necessary and I appreciate him doing such a thorough job.  He really was great, but good grief - No one talks about the strangely intimate and invasive situation visiting an oral surgeon can subject you to and I couldn’t help but find some humor in it.  I laughed all the way home and I hope he got a good laugh afterwards at how big my eyes got when he surprised me with both hands in my mouth. 

I got all my stitches out (10 in total - 6 just in the sideways one. The inside of my mouth probably looked like the joker’s - Why so serious?) and a blessing that I could carefully move on from eating applesauce and jello.