So, I’m a dentist, and I’ve been yanking teeth for over a decade, but yesterday, I turned a simple third molar extraction into a scene straight out of a horror flick. Buckle up, because I’m still spiraling, and I need to get this off my chest before I lose it in the op next week. It started innocently enough. Patient comes in, mid-20s, nervous but chill, here for a lower left 8 that’s been giving them grief. Radiograph shows it’s mesioangular, partially impacted, nothing I haven’t seen a million times. I’m thinking, “Easy peasy, in and out in 20 minutes, maybe I’ll even grab a coffee after.” Spoiler: I did not get that coffee.
I numb them up with a good ol’ IANB, throw in some buccal infiltration for kicks, and we’re vibing. Patient’s got their noise canceling headphones on, blasting some lo-fi beats, and I’m in the zone, elevator in hand, ready to luxate this bad boy. The tooth’s cooperative at first slight mobility, no drama. Then, I swear on my loupes, this molar decides it’s auditioning for The Exorcist.
I’m working the periosteal elevator, trying to get some purchase, when the damn thing fractures. Not just a little crack oh no, this tooth explodes into what I can only describe as coronal confetti. I’m staring at a pulpal mess, and the patient’s still bobbing their head to their playlist, oblivious. I’m like, “Okay, stay calm, just section it and move on.” So, I grab the high-speed, diamond bur spinning like my anxiety, and start troughing around the roots. That’s when I realize the distal root is practically shaking hands with the inferior alveolar nerve. Great. Just great. I’m sweating through my nitrile gloves at this point, and my assistant (bless her), she’s new and hands me a rongeur like it’s a peace offering. I’m trying to finesse the fragments out, but the buccal plate decides it’s done with life and just… crumbles. Now I’ve got a bone window that looks like I took a jackhammer to it, and I’m pretty sure I’m one wrong move from a paresthesia lawsuit. The patient’s still chilling, thank God for articaine, but I’m mentally writing my resignation letter.
Here’s where it gets unhinged. I’m fishing for the last root tip, and my suction slips because of course it does, and I accidentally yeet a chunk of amalgam from an adjacent 7 into the patient’s throat. They gag, I panic, and my assistant screams, “IS THAT A TOOTH?!” No, Karen, it’s not a tooth, it’s a rogue filling, and now I’m wondering if I need to call ENT or just pray they cough it up later. I’m yelling, “Spit! Spit!” like a deranged cheerleader, and they finally hawk it into the spittoon. Crisis averted. Kinda. By some miracle, I get the root out, patch up the socket with some collagen sponge, and throw in a couple of resorbable sutures. The patient’s none the wiser, thinks it went “fine,” and I’m standing there with a fake smile, my scrubs soaked like I ran a marathon. I send them off with post-op instructions and a Vicodin script, praying they don’t notice their jaw feels like a construction site.
Now I’m home, sipping whiskey out of a coffee mug, wondering if I should’ve gone to optometry school instead. My assistant keeps texting me memes about “dentist life,” and I’m questioning every life choice that led me to this moment. Did I mention the patient left a 5-star Yelp review? Said I was “super chill.” I’m not chill. I’m a walking OSHA violation.
And to top it all off, this morning I get a text from the patient asking if it’s normal to find a tiny piece of “shiny stuff” in their cereal. I’m 99% sure it’s just their granola, but now I’m paranoid it’s another chunk of amalgam staging a jailbreak. Send me to dental purgatory, I’m ready.
TL;DR: F’d up a routine wisdom tooth extraction, turned it into a buccal bone massacre, yeeted an amalgam into the patient’s throat, and somehow got away with it. Send help (or whiskey).