Long in the Tooth

This week's grand adventure involved the state of Alabama and one bad tooth. I don't know why I agreed to the notion of driving over an hour to submit myself to the barbaric torture chamber that is an endodontist's chair. But I did. It's been a week and I'm not over it yet.

I had been struggling with a tooth for a couple of months. I take very good care of my teeth but they still don't behave. This one was protesting every time I drank something cold or hot or bit down on it. I put it off as long as I could but the writing was on the wall. The very thought of going to the dentist scares the fool out of me. I have been subjected to some really bad dentists in my life. Or maybe they were just cheapskates. Too cheap to put that extra needle-full of Novocaine that it takes to put my gums asleep. I had a compassionate dentist in the last few years that explained to me that it takes twice as much to get me numb. I believe him. And that's ironic, since I've pushed out several eleven-pound babies with no drugs. Not that it doesn't hurt, but somehow I'm able to do that. Not so with my teeth, or my feet, for that matter. Don't mess with my feet. I might cut you. 

I told that endo-guy that me and my dentist agreed that I needed a double dose, but apparently he didn't believe me. Because when he got to tunneling through that molar, he hit something important. I don't normally cuss, but I would have, if my mouth hadn't been full of peoples' fingers and a drill. I definitely would have bitten him, if I could have. And even though I jumped and yelled, he hit that spot three times before he decided to let a little more of his precious Novocaine go. By this time, I've got trust issues and am all contorted and twisted up inside. My neck's gone turned into a vice and I'm remembering what my preacher said about earth being the closest to hell that a Christian will get. I couldn't quit thinking about tunnels, dark places, and wailing and gnashing of teeth. The dentist and his assistant were chatting and laughing, while I'm smelling the fires of hell burning up my poor tooth. Time stood still and then they were done. They unstrapped me and the helper wiped the slobber off my face, then told me I was free to go. Free to go where? I was seeing stars and feeling faint while I staggered to the desk and paid them my next IRS payment. I was somewhere in the bowels of Alabama and had to find a way to drive home. They do have Chick Fil-A's there, so I found one and broke my diet with a giant chocolate shake while throwing down four ibuprofen and a Tylenol. Those things don't work.

A week later and my travail is not over. My regular dentist told me this morning that I'm that one in a hundred patients that have these kinds of problems with this procedure. It would have to be me. So for now, I'm remembering a lot about that movie Castaway and when he had his tooth problem. I'm thinking about spending the afternoon looking to see if we've got any old ice skates in the barn...