When I was in high school, I had to get dental work done. This was during a period in my life when I started to believe that I would write something interesting and worth reading. This piece came out of a lot of discomfort that is usually associated with dental work. This piece came out of trying to stay sane through the that first world pain.
The Dentist
I don’t fear my
dentist—rather, I respect her. Though
the semi-annual visits hardly warrant such respect, I respect her as a hunter
respects the half-ton bear that is very capable of killing him. Respect and fear are close kin in both: the hunter’s and my case.
Great time was
invested in the hole where tooth No. 19 once was—the void now waiting for the
cap that should be made by this coming Saturday. Six years ago my tooth was chipped resulting
in a root canal in preparation for a cap to be inserted. Of course the
preparation lasted longer than expected, rather than that promised week I
waited six years in addition to that once week. Anticipation for the
installation of a cap is like that of an impending divorce.
This particular
visit was dedicated to filing down said tooth No. 19. The respect really starts kicking in when a
needle is held a few scant inches away from my face then plunged repeatedly
into my gums and other oral anatomy. A
five minute wait soon follows to let whatever numbing chemicals to set
in…naturally the five minutes shrink to one. Her flaw in time perception is obvious, but
the one in the chair should never point out the—er, professional’s flaws. Going back to the hunter analogy, you wouldn’t
tell a grizzly coming out of hibernation of his massive case of bed hair. All in good judgment, truly.
Coming back to the
numb—or semi-numb state of my face, or rather oral cavity. The suction straw was bent and hanging over my
teeth on the non-numb side, the only side in which I would feel the pinching
sucking powers of the device. (Though, I doubt this was a conscious act on my
dentist’s part). The suction straw is never a good sign. As the apple is an omen for temptation in the
Bible, the suction straw is an omen to the many encounters with drilling
devices getting really friendly with my teeth—and not necessarily with my
consent. But again, I doubt you give
consent with the aforementioned grizzly going for a post hibernation nibble,
which happens to be your jugular.
Consent be damned the
filing began. I saw that a mist was
coming out of my numbed mouth covering my dentist with (thus far) clear
liquid—which for my sanity’s sake I assumed was purely saliva and not the
dust-fine filings of my number 19 tooth. I skillfully or rather, half skillfully used
my tongue, though heavy and half useless, to maneuver the sucky straw. The sucking noise stopped and the angry
bumblebee sound of the filing grew to a forte. I am not sure which I preferred, and my
pondering of preference was cut short with the clear spray turning pink and
eventually red. Ah yes, red, that
tugging sensation was not the bumble-bee vying for my attention but the
penetration of my gums.
By the time it
came to rinse, (not sure how long that time took seeing as anything dental
related had the same fluidity of time in limbo) I lost total control of the
left side of my mouth and tongue. I’m
pretty dainty about gargling and spitting at the dentist’s, not so much this
time. Pink water and slush pistoned from
the tiny bit of lip that refused to close. The scene was neither dainty nor ADA approved. The paper towels were rather helpful though. Everything incriminating from my mouth was
absorbable. Yippee for me.
I must say, God
bless the brawny man. Maybe he could help me with the grizzly bear
problem.
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