2 posts tagged “dentist”
The extraction went a lot better than I thought it would. They pumped me full of nitrous, and to be honest, I didn’t care what they did to me. They could’ve said, “Ben, we’re going to go ahead and take your left big toe while we’re at it,” and I would’ve told them, Sure, just make sure to close the door on your way out, thanks. I was hearing that sound you get from being way too high? That deep, vibrating between the ears sound? Occasionally, paisley print phosphenes would chase each other across my field of vision, and I was deeply happy. At first, I was afraid that the gas would have no effect on me. It seemed to take longer to hit me than it does for most people. I figured that a wild and reckless youth had rendered me immune to novice states of altered consciousness. Then that head-in-a-vibrating trash can feeling set in, and I said something like, “Oh, yeah, that’s the stuff.”
There were a couple of disconcerting moments. First, the tool that they use to loosen the tooth is like caveman technology. It’s just a long, flat piece of metal. It’s inserted between the gum and tooth, and then the dentist crowbars it back and forth. The whole purpose of this is to stretch your gum into a giant hole, so the tooth will slip out more easily. I think, and I could be wrong here, that this is the same approach used by zoo veterinarians to ready female hippos and elephants for breeding. I told you it was disconcerting. You feel this incredible pressure against the side of your tooth, and you’re sure that your jaw is going to give with a loud crack. Instinctively, you wait for the crunch of hot pain, but it never comes. Once I realized that there really wouldn’t be any pain, and that my jaw wouldn’t break, I was able to relax and go on a little mental vacation. I composed a great little story in my head about two post-apocalypse zombies who fall in love despite the fact that they’re from different religious backgrounds? I hope I can put it down on paper some day. I’m not usually one for mushy romances, but I think I’m really onto something with that one. But not to digress, the second odd moment was after the dentist gave my tooth an especially hard tug, and then stopped cold. “Are you okay,” he said. “Yeah, I’m great,” I told him. The assistant leaned over and looked in. She seemed to get a little nervous. Her brow creased up, and her leg started tapping too fast, completely out of synch with the music in my head. But I figured, they were the experts, let them worry about it. Then I took some pleasure in the fact that they were still at work and I wasn’t. I wished them luck, but to be honest, it just wasn’t my problem.
When the tooth finally came out, it wasn’t the popping-cork noise I expected. Instead, it was more like an apple stem breaking off after it’s been twisted too tight. Snipeckt. All over. I felt like I had given birth. Except without any of the pain, sweat, or proud sense of accomplishment. The tooth came out looking like it had been dipped in a thick, red sauce. The blood seemed too bright, almost an orange color. That could have been the flourescent lighting. I thought, I wonder how much of my own blood I’ve actually swallowed? But, better in than out, I suppose.
The worst part of the whole experience was that I was given absolutely no pain medication to take home with me for Labor Day weekend. To be honest, I didn’t really need any. But when I was a kid, the dentist always used to give me a cheap, plastic toy to take home. It wasn’t much, but it was something to which I looked forward. Well, I don’t play with toys anymore. I guarantee you, though, that if given some really good, narcotic pain reliever, I could've gotten into playing with toys, again, damn it. And I miss playing with toys.
I think I lost the thread of where I was going with that last point. It’s just as well. I’m sick of writing about my teeth. I think it’s time to say goodbye to Toothy, and move on with my life. I have a mushy romance to get started on. Wink, wink.
Take care, old friend.
I have a wisdom tooth whose time has come. For many years I've done everything I can to keep this tooth, despite the fact that all it does is cause me pain. It's oversized, and hangs down way too low. The place below it is bare gum from where I had another widsom tooth removed. When my gums swell due to sinus or allergy problems, the tooth scrapes against that patch of gum and makes it swell even worse. Yet I have accepted the pain gladly rather than face the alternative. Extraction. The word even sounds scary. It sounds like a euphemism used by trained killers. "Don't worry about it, Mr. M. We'll extract him. It's a simple extraction, if you get my meaning. Consider him extracted."
But now there's no more putting it off. It's showing signs of decay and has to go. The question is, how? I thought about getting drunk, grabbing some pliers and doing it myself. Things always seem to hurt less when you do them yourself. But I'd just end up passing out from the pain. Then my girlfriend would come home to find me unconscious, covered in blood, smelling of gin & olives. I wouldn't even be awake to enjoy the look on her face.
No, this is a job for a professional. It's been almost a month since my last dental visit. I just can't make up my mind. And I think my dentist resents me a little. During my last visit, I asked if I should have him do it, or if I should go to a dental surgeon.
"I am a dental surgeon," he said.
"Can you sedate me?" I asked.
"No, for sedation you need to see an oral surgeon."
"Well, that's what I meant. An oral surgeon."
"It really depends on what you're most comfortable with. I can recommend an excellent doctor."
"But do you think I'm blowing this out of proportion? Or do you think it's better if I see a dental surgeon?"
"Oral. . . surgeon. I'm a dental surgeon."
I think he really took it personally. He went on to fill another tooth of mine, and usually, he puts goggles on me so I don't get saliva, water, and enamel in my eyes when he's drilling? Even on the rare occasion that I'm not wearing my protective gear, he makes sure to tell me when to close my eyes. He's very gentle. But not after the dental surgeon faux pas. He didn't even bring up the protective goggles. He and his assistant made sure they had theirs, though. He never told me to look away. He even smirked when I got water or whatever in my eyes since he neglected to tell me to close them. I had to ask for extra novocain before he got started. I swear, he was going to drill me only half-numb. So, needless to say, I'm a little wary of having him perform the extraction. Oh, well. He's probably forgotten about it, huh?
If I go to the oral surgeon, I can be sedated. Then I don't have to endure the unpleasantness of hearing bones crack, and the wet popping sound of my tooth being removed, like a cork from a bottle of Chimay. But that lost capsule of time freaks me out a little. A period of your life that just . . . disappears. Will I dream? Will the doctor take advantage of me? The thought of being fondled doesn't bother me as much as being fondled and not knowing about it! My God, I could torture myself the rest of my life over that.
Then there's my usual dental (la-tee-da) surgeon. Assuming he doesn't hate me. He'll gas me up, and that could be interesting. I've never had gas. (Shut up, you know what I mean.) Laughing gas sounds so pleasant. But a friend told me it was like being drunk. I'm not always so pleasant when I'm drunk. What if I start shit with the dentist and things turn ugly? Of course, I won't be doing much talking. That's good.
So there I am.
Gas? Or oblivion?
Gas. Oblivion.
I'm giving myself until Sunday night to decide. Then I have to start getting rough with myself.
