A man in a strategically placed white coat wants to do something terribly sinister to me. He claims it will benefit me in the long run, and that I will experience only mild discomfort…I don’t buy it. Even those near and dear to me claim it won’t be so bad. They “handle” me by telling me lively stories of how the post-op pain meds will temporarily make me high. They seem almost envious of this, but I’m just hoping I won’t have a bad trip…I don’t encourage myself to participate in things that require me to relinquish control.
It’s a normal, routine procedure, they say. Everyone has to get it done sooner or later. However, I don’t see the difference between this procedure and a sociopathic crime. It is what it is, and it won’t be pleasant. A large man wearing gloves wants to first drug me with gas, then plunge a large needle into my vein only before he cuts deeply into my gums with a scalpel, at which point he will extract two wisdom teeth. I picture at this point he will dim all the lights except the interrogation style one shining into my mouth. He will then expel the deep, guttural, Ursula-from-The-Little-Mermaid-style laugh before holding the freshly exhumed teeth up to admire his masterful work. If you ask me it sounds like a torture ritual, after which he will keep my teeth for a trophy.
Let’s take a serious look at the facts…the man is an oral surgeon. He has to enjoy hurting people. He doesn’t need bedside manner, because the patient’s are mostly unconscious. He is guaranteed to cause great pain to any person who graces his medieval torture chair. After x-raying my mouth he discovered I had two extra wisdom teeth…a total of six. When he shared the news with me, I thought I was talking to a giddy pre-teen girl who just kissed a boy behind the bleachers. He couldn’t have been more excited. When I only opted to have the bottom ones removed I could see the defeat in his thirsty eyes. He wanted them all. I imagine if the FBI were to search his basement, along with 83 copies of The Silence of the Lambs, they would find glass cases full of nicely polished wisdom teeth that he shines and examines with a monocle daily. He’s a psychopath. The madness must be stopped!
The scary part is I know I won’t win. The stories of these teeth causing possible nerve damage, bone erosion, crooked teeth, and even cancer have terrified me into paying the price of four Coach purses to take the little bastards out. I’m going to do it. I’m yet another pawn for the doctor’s heinous fetish. That’s the way it is. They use similar techniques to get men to spill government secrets, and I’m paying for it. On November 10th, there I will be, strapped to Torquemada’s chair, saying ahh, donating my mouth to the throes of the disgusting tastes of the oral surgeon…or it could all be in my head. My point is simply this…good old fashioned torture and “perfectly safe” wisdom teeth extraction look a lot of like.
2 thoughts on “A Trip to Torquemada’s Chair”
For some reason this reminds me of a poem that begins:
“He brushed his teeth with a hacksaw
Until he had no smile…”
Haha…love the imagery…definitely relatable to the picture I had in my head while writing this one.