Wisdom Teeth

When you’re sitting in the passenger seat of a red 2003 Ford Winstar minivan on your way to the oral surgery office in Lititz, facing your possible death, you appreciate the sight of a peculiar flock of white birds that resembles the dove you never got to own and wonder if the birds are God’s idea of an ironic send off when the flock suddenly disperses and soon you have nothing to gaze upon but the road that passes under the surprisingly sturdy tires of the vehicle, and all you think about is the impending surgery you are about to undergo in forty minutes, until, that is, your mother gives you some mystery pill and within ten minutes, you have a goofy smile on your face and are no longer concerned with the idea of a needle and tube being inserted into your very delicate skin, rather you can’t help but hum happily to the Faith Hill song pounding from the car speakers that you can’t remember the name of, until the van pulls into the parking lot and you have to walk into your final destination and the doctors fill out paperwork and strap your arms down to the chair—which is definitely never a good sign—and put some infernal contraption on your arm that squeezes tightly every two minutes—and you really want to just rip it off but you can’t move because of that pill and the arm restraints—and as they make you squeeze your fist over and over so that your vein pops up and they can put in the IV, your worst enemy, all you’re thinking about is your boyfriend and how he’s going to owe you five dollars when the doctor kills you, and soon you’re fading into darkness and a dreamless sleep and the next thing you know, someone’s nudging you and a woman’s voice is telling you it’s all over and calling you honey and something about successfully getting all seven teeth out and you really just want to tell her to go away so you can go back to sleep.