Loose Lips Sink Ships. In my U.S. History class sophomore year, we learned the simple phrase used to keep secrets during World War II just that—secrets. I was absent from class that frosty December day, but the motto stuck.

Six months prior, my friend’s dad told me I’d be needing to have my wisdom teeth removed sometime later that year. Don’t fret, he’s also my dentist. 

I was terrified—not of the surgery—but of the repercussions. I’ve seen countless videos of teenagers under laughing gas slip important information, embarrassing stories, or even just random ramblings after their surgeries. I didn’t want this to happen, especially in front of my friend’s dad.

My friend and I had recently gone through a breakup. It was over and done with, but I was afraid that seeing his dad might accidentally remind me of him and then the words would just pour. 

Months crawled by as I pondered how I’d keep my lips tight. I came to one conclusion: deny everything. 

Deny everything. Deny everything. Deny everything. 

….

The bell on the front door chimed as I stepped in, my snow-caked boots dampening the carpet. In the waiting room lay a girl barely older than I, slumped over and half-conscious.

“Wisdom tooth surgery,” claimed the secretary, motioning in her direction.

“Great. Just one?”

“Yep.”

I was to have two.

….

I slumped into my seat, fidgeting with my ring.

“That’s a nice ring, you’ve got there,” piped the assistant. 

Forcing a smile, I nodded my head, quickly returning my gaze to the linoleum. 

“Holidays are coming up. Anything on your wishlist?”

“Not anything in particular, no.”

“Have you received your driver’s license?”

I nodded my head slightly.

The only time I contributed anything other than a minimal answer was when I explained the history of the original Sears catalog; the new advancements of steam-powered locomotives were able to transport the catalog across the American frontier during the Age of the Pioneers. 

Thanks, U.S. History.

Eventually the woman gave up, figuring it was best if she just left me alone before the surgery began. Gently she placed the gas mask over my face, securing the strap around the back of my head. 

“Alrighty, now. I’m just going to leave you be for a few minutes—really let that laughing gas settle in—and we’ll be started in no time! Just holler if you need anything.”

I mustered a “thank you” as she spun on her heel and dashed around the corner. 

I gazed out the window at the half-empty parking lot. This is it. I’m sure to be laughingstock. Or even worse, get my friend in trouble. 

I’d never felt so lonely. Here I sat, concerned about the well-being and reputation of someone who had hurt me, and I still prioritized it over my impending doom.

Lonely. I’m alone. 

I’M ALONE!

I glanced at the open doorway, checking to make sure no one was in the hall.

I whipped my mask off, letting the gas filter out into the room. 

If I were conscious of the fact that I was alone, then I could stay conscious during the surgery too. And that’s exactly what I did.

I threw my mask back on as the assistant returned with the surgeon, ready for operation. I faked my way through the surgery, rolling my eyes and pretending to be sleepy.

Truth is, I felt every sharp poke, jab, and drill used the entire time. I can’t even eat mashed sweet potatoes anymore because they remind me of the warm, thick, soupy blood pooled in my mouth. Now my mom just thinks I really hate sweet potatoes for some reason. 

Obviously my surgery was nowhere near as brutal as the interrogations of World War II, but I’d like to think that even under a scalpel and electric drill, my lips are tight enough to keep ships afloat.