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 That
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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