An unnecessary surgery millions endure without questioning why.
We need to stop pretending wisdom teeth are a normal part of growing up. They’re useless, painful, and outdated: an evolutionary leftover that causes millions of people unnecessary suffering every year. If our jaws have evolved to no longer need them, why haven’t our dental norms?
I found this out the hard way: lying in a wheelchair, cheeks swollen like I’d swallowed two grapefruits, being wheeled out of an oral surgery clinic after having all four of my wisdom teeth removed in one brutal session. In that moment, it was hard to feel like this was part of a “normal” human experience.
Ancient teeth in a modern mouth
Yet it is. Every year, over 10 million wisdom teeth are removed in the United States, frequently when they emerge between the ages of 15 and 25. Roughly 85% of people will remove them eventually, often before problems even begin. And the kicker? These teeth are vestigial, leftovers from a time when humans needed extra chewing power for raw roots and meat. Today, they’re about as useful as an appendix with an attitude.
Certain wisdom teeth can cause infections and destroy adjacent teeth while growing in, so dentists have become proactive about classifying these teeth as “impacted” and recommending surgical removal. However, some argue that we’ve overprescribed dental surgeries. According to dental research, 50% of upper wisdom teeth that are classified as “impacted” are just growing normally. This research concluded that millions of days stuck in pain could be avoided if dentists were more careful with diagnoses.
The surgery: My wisdom’s last stand
The morning of the surgery, I felt like I was walking toward a firing squad with insurance and a $2500 bill. My stomach churned with a cocktail of nerves and pre-surgical fasting, and the sterile scent of the oral surgery center only made things worse. I tried to play it cool, cracking a joke about leaving the teeth to science, but my laugh came out thin and tight. The anesthesiologist placed the IV, and within seconds, the world began to slide sideways. It wasn’t sleep exactly – it was more like being pulled down into velvet darkness by a hand you couldn’t see.
When I came out, time had shifted. My mouth was numb, my tongue heavy, and my brain foggy as if I’d been hit with a pillow made of morphine. Then came the wheelchair. My legs weren’t ready to support me, so they rolled me out to the car like royalty wore an adult bib and had gauze hanging out of their face. I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of a parked car and nearly laughed, but even that hurt. I looked like a tragic balloon animal. In the backseat, clutching my painkillers and an ice pack like war medals, I was hit with an odd feeling: not just pain, but betrayal. My own body had grown these extra teeth, then punished me for having them. Four teeth down and dignity rapidly declining, I was officially post-op, puffy, and perplexed,
Dentistry’s bloody history
Thankfully, I live in the comfort of modern dentistry, knowing I’m unlikely to suffer from a surgery-related infection and didn’t have to suffer through a painful operation without anesthesia. Compared to Civil War amputations, getting my wisdom teeth removed was like accidentally biting my tongue.
Dentistry developed much more slowly than other medical practices. It wasn’t until 1723, when Pierre Fauchard published the funnily named book “The Treatise on Teeth,” that there was any written work on basic oral anatomy and dental operations. It wasn’t until 1958 that a reclining dental chair was introduced worldwide.
Ice cream, isolation, and existential thoughts
“You will be better in 72 hours,” the doctor had promised with the calm confidence of someone who clearly wouldn’t be participating in any of the drooling.
On day one, I realized 72 hours is a lie. A myth. A cruel dental fairytale.
I woke up swollen beyond recognition–my cheeks puffed out like I’d lost a bet with a bee. My jaw ached like it had been unhinged and reattacked by someone with a grudge. Even attempting to swallow felt like dragging gravel down a dry pipe, and my tongue seemed unfamiliar, as if it no longer knew where to live inside my mouth.
Talking? Forget it. I tried to say “more ice packs,” but it came out sounding like a dying whale. My family gave me the kind of sympathetic look usually reserved for people who’ve lost at bingo.
Then there was the diet. The tragic, endlessly repeating loop of soft foods: protein shakes, soup, and pudding. I began to lose track of time. Meals blurred together into one long, textureless puree of regret.
On day two, emboldened by a few quiet hours of reduced throbbing and maybe a bit too much Tylenol, I attempted toast. One bite in, and I was instantly reminded that I was still 100% in pain. The toast brushed against a stitch, and I froze, wide-eyed, holding it in my mouth like a hostage negotiator considering terms. Eventually, I spit it out into a napkin and apologized to no one in particular.
On day three, the end of my promised “full recovery” window, I looked in the mirror and audibly laughed. Which hurt. I was pale, swollen, and slightly cross-eyed from sleep deprivation. My breath smelled like pudding. I was not okay. I was not even in the neighborhood of okay.
The pain was still there, but something had shifted. It was no longer overwhelming. It had softened just enough to let humor through. Maybe the doctor’s promise wasn’t completely wrong. I wasn’t healed in 72 hours, but I was on my way.
Wisdom lost, perspective gained
By the end of my recovery, the swelling had faded, the stitches dissolved, and I could finally eat without wincing. Physically, I was fine. But, mentally, I was left with a new kind of discomfort: the realization that I’d gone through something painful, expensive, and strangely unquestioned.
For generations, wisdom teeth removal has been treated as a medical inevitability: a box to check on the way to adulthood. However, the science reveals a more complex story: these teeth are remnants from an ancient version of ourselves, and much like the appendix, they’re only sometimes a danger. Many remain harmless for life. Yet millions of us are told, as I was, that extraction is simply what’s done.
That’s what stays with me: not the pain, not the swelling, but the automatic nature of it all. The sense that I handed over my teeth and a chunk of my wallet, because it was expected, not necessarily because it was essential.
I don’t regret the decision. I trusted my doctors, and I was lucky to have good care. But I do wonder, in a world where medicine is becoming more personalized and precise, why are we still using a one-size-fits-all approach to something so common?
Losing my wisdom teeth taught me a strange kind of wisdom: just because something is traditional doesn’t mean it’s necessary. And just because we can remove something doesn’t always mean we should.
