Warning: This post is not for the denta-phobic. And it definitely may fall under the category of “More than you want to know,” so if you want to believe that I write in a turret all day, better skip this entry.
Last week, on the advice of my dentist, I agreed to have two crowns put on. Why? Because I apparently grind my teeth in my sleep, and I have worn down my molars in the back. So all four lower molars have to be “crowned.”
In any case, I went to the dentist, expecting it to be no big deal. Back in my orthodontics days, I had six teeth pulled, and don’t remember that as being too awful. So anyway, last week I settle into the chair, accept the stuff on a stick that numbs my gums, and prepare for smooth coasting.
The dentist (whom I like a lot) comes in and taps my gums and teeth with something. “Do you feel that?” I shake my head. “Okay, we’re good to go.”
And so she begins to whitttle a pair of perfectly fine, if a little flat, molars down to nubs.
Well. All I can tell you is that I kept thinking of Sydney in that Alias pilot when the mad Chinese guy pulled out her tooth without anesthetic. And I know it’s only a TV show, but I keep thinking that if Syd can sit through that and still urge the guy to “bring it on,” I can sit here and get this tooth filed down.
But I begin to feel something, so I think of Sloane and the Needles of Pain.
And I begin to see little bits of tooth flying around, so I think of Marshall (love him!) drinking the epoxy.
And then I begin to feel more sensations, so I think of Vaughn (sigh) and the Inferno Protocol or whatever it was that was supposed to be soooo painful.
And at some point, I think I yelped. Actually, “yelped” is probably not the exact word, since my mouth was filled with cotton and fingers and drills and vacuums and what not. But it was enough to make the dentist pull back and look at me, her eyes wide above her surgical mask. “Did I hurt you?”
Duh. I didn’t say anything of course–couldn’t–but through sign language I make it clear that I WANT MY IPOD. So I plug it into my ears, thinking that all my favorite songs will drown out the drill and carry me away to a place where even Syd would feel no pain.
Well. Peter Cetera is not good for dentist’s offices; he has no transporting power. Nichole Nordeman, on the other hand, is excellent. At one point I think I was in the Throne Room of heaven, at least until the odor of burning tooth wafted up and entered my nostrils. Bingo, I’m back in the chair. My hands look like they’re directing a symphony, but there’s a lot of clenching and unclenching. And I’m covered in a cold sweat.
I keep thinking Why? I have only one cavity in my entire mouth. I have only eight molars to my name. Why on earth am I doing this?
Because someone said I should. I’m such a sucker.
Well, enough dramatics. Suffice it to say that I now have Two Temporary Teeth and still have go to back and get two more nubs and that means more drills and fingers and vaccums and what not. Next time it’s Nichole Nordeman all the way.
I tell you, it’s enough to make a Baptist yearn for booze .