Sacrificing teeth for the Lord is a strange thing we do as members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. In the Bible, James writes, “If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God.” I suppose when you lack wisdom [teeth], you can finally be part of the club.
When you go to get your wisdom teeth removed, you don’t have to be afraid of anything–except for the guy with the big scary instruments pulling out your teeth. You should be mildly afraid of him.
This year, I have been preparing to serve a full-time mission, and as part of the application process, I needed to make sure both my testimony and my mouth were in prime condition.
So off I went to a dental clinic in downtown Honolulu. It is like a fast food-type place for dental service. Fewer than five minutes after arriving and filling out paperwork, a kind dental assistant ushered me into a back corner of the office and handed me some snazzy, black sunglasses to shield my eyes from the signature big, overhead dental light.
At this point, I had a moment to stress out about the impending procedure. As I sat there, my heartbeat grew faster, my palms got sweaty, and my new glasses fogged up sufficiently from the condensation of my breath attempting to escape my mask-covered face.
When the doctor walked in, I immediately recognized him as the Gaston of the dentistry world. He sat down with perfect confidence and a look on his face that meant business. From the onset, I knew he was a “get down to the nitty gritty” kind of guy, and no chit-chat was going to happen.
That works well in most cases. However, when a man is about to stick his fingers in your mouth and take out your pearly whites, I thought it’d be nice of him to establish some rapport beforehand. Not so.
Gaston took my mission papers, signed them, told Carol at the front desk to check all the boxes, then laid me back to start the surgery. I thought, “Great! The papers are signed. Get me out of here!”
But Gaston was already at work, explaining, “These shots are no fun. Those will hurt. But then it won’t hurt. It’ll just be intense. If there’s anything sharp, tell me. You can do this.”
Then, in the same stroke that numbed my whole mouth, he began comparing his performance with another dentist’s, teasing the dental assistant who was handing him needles, pliers, chainsaws, and whatever else one uses to pull teeth.
“Is he an OD? So, you’re telling me I should use a 15? I bet if he came here, I could show him a few things about taking teeth out too.”
All I heard, as he prodded and poked my gums was, “When I was a lad, I ate four dozen eggs every morning to help me get large…”
He was right, the shots were no fun, but what was worse was when everything was numb and I couldn’t speak, my doctor started bragging about his extraction skills, [“No one takes out teeth like Gaston!”], and you feel him ripping out your teeth as he pulls at your lips.
What an ordeal! Yet all the while he assured me, “This is the best way to get your teeth pulled. You’re in good hands.” Sure, Gaston, you WOULD say that.
Then, just 10 minutes later, he stood my chair up again, stuffed my mouth full of gauze and started handing me papers, prescribing me prescription painkillers.
He explained, “There are four gaping holes in your mouth. They are filling up with blood. That’s going to hurt. So you’ll need to take these drugs. Don’t use straws. Don’t swish. Don’t try to clean them. Don’t spit. High ho, cheerio! I’m off to ruin someone else’s day.” [Not a direct quote.]
Trying to remember everything he just told me, I re-masked my face, grabbed my things, and stumbled with my swollen chipmunk cheeks and bleeding mouth to the front foyer where Carol held my papers. I wanted to say, ‘Thank you,’ to Gaston and his cronies, but my numbed mouth made it entirely impossible.
When you can’t speak, you realize how much you’ve been saying that you really don’t need to say. On my way out of the dental office, I took a vow of silence like a monk, acknowledging this as a better way of life.
Walking alone on the downtown streets of Honolulu in a daze, I attempted to smile at the people around, but all I could manage was a quick grimace and a creepy squint of the eyes. I finally made my way to the holy grail of all unnecessary expenditures, and my drug dispensary: Target.
Inside Target waiting for my meds, I laughed and talked to Natalie, a saintly friend who was willing to drive me home. She pretended to understand what I said as I laughed at my own pathetic attempts to make meaningful conversations out of a bloody, numb, gauze-stuffed mouth.
As I laughed, I could taste my gums exude more blood. I just sucked it all down my throat, tasting the familiar metallic life juice trail down my trachea. Yummy. My vow of silence lay forgotten on the Target floor.
When we returned to Laie, I gave the bishop my mission papers [mission accomplished!], and I slept. After a few days of intermittent sleeping, slurping Jello and watching “Downton Abbey,” I was functioning fully again with only a sore mouth and four fewer teeth.