The Tooth, The Whole Tooth

I spent this morning at the dentist's office.

Now, there are probably a couple of things I need to get clear right off the bat. First of all, going to the dentist doesn't bother me. I generally don't mind the prodding and probing and poking and pinching, as long as there's something for me to dig my fingers into. I accept that there may well be a certain amount of pain (which in dental speak is "pressure" - "you may feel some pressure here"), and get on with it. Having said that, it's been well over a year since I've graced the dentist's office. This is mainly due to time. They won't set me up with an appointment six months in advance when I'm leaving after a check-up. They wait six months and then send me a postcard telling me it's time for me to make an appointment. And I take that card and write phone messages from work on it, and then file it with my bills, and then lose it, and it takes me forever to get to that check-up. Unless something goes wrong.

And something had gone wrong.

I've been fighting a dodgy tooth for months. And when I say months, I mean maybe 5 months. It started being really painful when I'd chew on it, so I started chewing on the other side. Then it started being really sensitive to cold. Since I can't drink on one side, I called the dentist, it was a Friday, so I got their machine, they didn't return my call, I got disgusted, and time passed and I chewed half-mouthedly, and finally it got to where I couldn't take it anymore. I called the first of March and told them it had gotten to "unbearable" status. OK, they said. Come in at the end of next month. I know they were giggling over that one when they got off the phone.

So I got comfy this morning in the chair and awaited the arrival of Dr Guts. Dr Guts, of course, isn't his real name, but he was given this name by Taytie when T was just a little lad, because Dr Guts is a triathlete. He doesn't look like a triathlete; he looks like a glasses-wearing nebbish. But he's a very nice man, and I like him, even if he does live in a spectactularly huge house bought with the teeth of people like me.

I'm used to having my teeth cleaned, then seeing Dr Guts, having him come in, check me out, maybe fix some worn enamel here and there, remind me I need to floss more, then say, "Very good, A+," and zip out. That didn't happen today.

Dr Guts came right in and looked at my x-ray. "I think I see the problem," he said, and immediately got out the hook. I'm not fond of the hook. Not 2 minutes into probing around with the hook, Dr Guts said something that may as well have been a bullet to my heart.

"You need to brush your teeth better."

Now, I'm adult enough to admit that my feelings get hurt very easily. But this was just the most humiliating thing. I've always been prided on my teethbrushing skills. He's said it himself - A+! And now he was scraping around showing me plaque on my back teeth. He did say my front teeth looked fine, but "You need to brush your teeth better?" Why not just say, "You're a horrible person and you'll burn in hell."

So now that I was sufficiently deflated, he went on to tell me I had a cavity. I'm 44 fucking years old, how can I have a cavity? Oh, that's right, it's because I can't brush my fucking teeth, right? OK, so Dr Guts swabs my gum, then gets out the needle, and starts pumping in the novocaine. And yes, it hurt, so my hands, folded in front of me and resting on my tummy, started gripping each other with zeal. "Boy, you've really got the deathgrip there, don't you?" said Dr Guts, and I started to giggle.

While I was waiting to numb up, and in an alarming move of stupidity, the dental assistant gave me a new medical history form to fill out. Now, I need to say right here that my jaw wasn't really getting numb, though the rest of me had all but turned to jelly. Things were a bit blurred, and my hands couldn't really grip the clipboard or the pencil. But answer, I did. To "Have you ever been taught the correct method of brushing teeth?" I answered "apparently not," and to "Are you prone to fainting?" I answered "Outside of the dentist's office, no."

When Dr Guts came back, I explained that I didn't think I was numb enough for the oncoming battle, and he gave me one more shot. As I sat alone in the office and waited some more, I started to giggle. Why? Couldn't possibly tell you, but I was sitting there, giggling my insides out, and when Dr G came back in and said, "OK, we're ready. Showtime!" I started singing the theme to Rocky and Bullwinkle. He laughed. It was his fault; he should have never said "Showtime!"

The feeling of the drill isn't really pleasant. The sound is less so. But the worst to me is the smell of burning tooth coupled with the sight of seeing smoke flying from one's mouth. But I was handling things just fine, holding my fingers together and being a good girl.

But you know, there are certain things you don't want to hear certain people say. Like, you don't want to hear the guy giving you a tattoo say "Ooops!" I got to hear my dentist say two things I could have lived without. The first was "Uh-oh." And the second was, and I'm not making this up, "I don't think I've ever seen this before." Apparently, somewhere under my cavity or in some really odd spot, my tooth was starting to crack.

This discovery resulted in my having a large metal vice screwed onto my tooth (it stuck out of my mouth about two inches), a wedge of some sort pushed in there (hey drive a truck in, it'd be more comfortable), and some sort of composite thing made that may or may not hold the tooth together. If it doesn't, I have to go back for a crown. I've always wanted a crown. Unfortunately, I've always wanted one for my head, not my tooth.

After a kindly explanation (with drawings!) by Dr Guts of what was wrong, what he did, and what he may have to do down the road, I was free to go, which was all well and good, but I was still way loopy and getting out of the chair was really a fun-filled experience. I then got to make an appointment for a cleaning, and a check-up on the work done today. And although the tally today wasn't really that expensive ($120), it seems so odd to pay someone for inflicting pain upon your person.

But that's life, I guess. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go learn to brush my teeth better.