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Blunt in FashionThat Damn Tooth Fairy Owes Me Big Time
an emily blunt rant





By now readers of this area know my life is a situation comedy on acid. Naturally even an event as mundane as a trip to the dentist can't be ordinary…

Most people go to the dentist and bing-bang-boom they get a filling, perhaps a cleaning and they are set free. Not me. I show up they do the x-rays and bam the eyebrows rise and colleagues gather around the prints. Drat. I knew it wouldn't be to smooth…

It starts harmless enough. I had lost a little bit of a molar's filling. Naturally, I promptly ignored it. However, while innocently frantically munching (did you know the faster you eat the less calories stick- I'm kidding) like a human tick on a jumbo bag of baked Doritos - my tooth decided to chip in half. I never did find the chip.

But still there was no pain! So "leave alone and live on" is my motto. Happily ignoring the ripping my tongue was taking, I adapted my speech delivery and accommodated the new sharp canyon crevice beside the lazy muscle. Simple Darwinism in action really.

This went on relatively incident free for about a week. For whatever reason I decided to buck up and go to the dentist already. Of course this was only after my tooth basket horded some huge food partical for the winter ala Jack London. Gross. I draw the line at rancid food bits.

I admit it was a morbid fear of pain, in particular dental pain, that forbid me from facing the horrible truth about the menacing molar. I'm not special here - like a billion other people - I dread, nauseate-at-the-site-of, loathe and despise the dentist. I do defend myself with an argument. See, I have good reason to feel the shudder of cold up my spine when within fifty yards from the dental wards that plague our planet. Thanks to DNA and an early birth my mouth is petit and yet still carrying all the teeth a six-foot fellow would support - I have a mouth that makes Steve Buscemi's look tame okay. There are too many wisdom teeth, an ity bity pallet, and these "roots" that intertwine with facial nerves making it virtually impossible to pluck them. Well, without making my face sag. I am a dentist's nightmare.

There's that and the posttraumatic knee jerk reaction I have in the chair. I tremble, laugh like a mad woman and weep uncontrollably as they try to work. I am certifiably terrified. You know I have never given birth - but I would gladly pop out twins if given the choice between twins or the dentist. I am not the client they enjoy in the chair. I am , I'm afraid, a drama queen.

You getting the picture?

My mouth brings a certain awe to the doctors I meet up with too. I get those "looks." The same I imagine would cross upon the faces of mere mortals if the likes of John Merrick stumbled into Von Frankenstein's. Thanks to a few years of manual shaping and enough metal to rebuild the Eiffel tower, my impediment doesn't show to the average Joe. Dentists instantly know and salivate at the specimen before them.

And sure enough the molar trouble of late was no different. They gave me a dueling dilemma; extract the thing or (the perky hygienist said with way too much enthusiasm) go throug a root canal, with a yummy filling, topped with a scrumdelious crown. Hmm. Which would I choice…. Of course the cost was a factor. Root canal = 1200.00, extraction = 65.00. I shit you not. It is a primary molar in question they were talking about by the way so that is why they even bothered sending me to the financial aid wing of the sanitarium. Of course the reality of the ultra-thin wallet won out. DUH. Pull the bastard. A mathematical no brainer.

So they stick me with the stuff to numb me as I started to froth and panic. I only had to flee to the bathroom twice to puke! That's a good trip to the dentist.

Ah, but the fun began as the mouth numbed. Seems since this menacing molar was, technically, healthy, it didn't take kindly to being catapulted out of its cozy socket within my jaw. Eek. The first hour, god bless her soul, the new dental doc pried, pulled and fumbled. Hour two they brought in an Indian fellow who believed serenity would help as he "talked" to the tooth. Tah! Soon he began swearing in half english that the Karma of the room was preventing the tooth from giving and I was the anti-christ or some such bruhaha. I think he quit the practice before the day was out…mumbling about how he should have been a proctologist like he had wanted.

The molar had taken down two warriors (er, doctors) in two hours; a record even for me. I was covered in blood and the small children fled with their lollipops to their parents eager, unnerved, arms. I was costing this place thousands of dollars in clientele for sure. All the terrified patrons saw was three or four sweating aggravated doctors diligently balancing themselves on my chair chiseling, sawing and cursing as blood and juice flew past the suction devices and I wept. By the time the fourth doctor arrived on the scene it looked like a bad production of Sweeney Todd in my cubicle. I'd swear I saw a snicker-snee in a court of law!

The damn tooth just wouldn't give. It never ended. Every once in a while I would get extremely brave and actually open my eyes only to see unhappy hateful faces, sweating, concerned, their eyes frowning and sighing as they weaved back and forth defiant in the face of defeat. And then there were those dancing monkeys!

The drills came and went. The interns gathered with pads and pens. Then what looked like a craftsman's wood carving tool was called in and they wanted me to sign "the release."

I knew it was coming. I all but fainted. I had no choice. They divided the tooth - a kind of Napoleon plan of periodontal divide and conquer. One half gave way easy. The other side required the big artillery to be called in. Deployed. They drilled, pried, and chiseled as that horrid whirly sound and smoke filled the room. I feared if I opened my eyes at this point I'd see Dr. Howard, Dr. Howard and Dr. Fine ynuck-ynucking about with the instruments. I kept my tear filled eyes firmly shut and tried to find "my happy place."

Finally I heard the sound of glee permeate the room as the doctors conga-lined through the waiting room. They held the half-a-molar in a grip thingy high, like a surreal scene from Lord of the Flies or something. At least that's how (three valiums later) I remember it.

The place was joyess. They smiled and wrote me out gazillion different prescriptions. I mean they took bone for crimminey sakes! Of course that is one of the perks of being a medical oddity. The drugs. I got a round of three different painkillers, as they were sure at least two wouldn't work "on me" and it was best for all I not come around too soon. So here I sit; drugged, mellow and my head pounding without pain for the time being, waiting for the instant the drugs wear thin to remind me of the day's events.

I have a big owy and I am all whiny woo-woo. Hey you would be too. The plus side is the weight I will lose since I can't friggin' eat - of course I am still starving even half cocked! Geeze.



written under the influence of vicadin....


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