I broke a tooth. I realize, in and of itself, that’s not funny or worthy of a Doc Tales. But, it led to the following experience which I feel compelled to get off my chest.
The broken tooth resulted in one of my absolute favorite pastimes – multiple trips to the dentist! Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a raving anti-dentite. I kind of like my dentist. In a normal social setting, I think he’d actually be a fun guy. No, it’s the whole sadistic profession that bothers me to my core. From the very first interaction where they take your blood pressure in the lobby and show no alarm whatsoever when it’s 180/90! "Come on back. Take the third room on the right. No, the other right."
Then, they lay you back in the inverted throne of torture and commence to fill your mouth with all sorts of comfort. First, there’s the three cotton balls stuffed in there to dry everything out. Then they flood your oral cavity with a super soaker and what can only be described as a vacuum hose with the sucking power of my mom’s 1938 Electrolux Model XXX (look it up, it’s real). "Are you comfortable?", he asks. My muffled response is, "Of course. Who doesn’t enjoy a good waterboarding at 8:00 in the morning?" He doesn’t laugh. He either has no sense of humor or can’t understand a word I’m saying.
Next, it’s the Novocain. "You’ll feel a little pinch," he says as he drives what appears to be one of those 3-inch needles we used to use to bleed hogs up through my cheek and directly into my right eyeball. At least that’s what it felt like. "Now, just lie there while that numbs you up and I’ll be right back," he says. The 13-year-old hygienist is trying to be nice and hands me a bottle of water even though I declined the offer (she probably doesn’t understand dental patient gibberish). Have you ever tried to drink water from a bottle while inverted with 3 cotton balls in your half-numb mouth? I did because I’m Southern and we were taught to be polite. Water ran up my nose and out onto the floor. The hygienist didn’t seem surprised at all. She got a paper towel and handed me a straw.
Then Dr. Doom returns. Surprisingly, he’s not wearing all leather and carrying whips and chains. Instead, he’s in a deceptively calming yellow gown covered in rainbows and unicorns. He sits down next to me and places a comforting hand on my shoulder. At least I thought it was "comforting." I soon decided it was only to hold me down. "Let’s see what we have here," he says. You know what happens next.
Saying, "let me know if this hurts," he commences to grind my tooth with what can only be described as the remnants of a grinding stone from a defunct feed mill located outside of Turkey, NC. After what seems like an hour of that, he shuts off the grinder and fires up the drill. The bit on this thing looks like it just came off an oil rig in east Texas. He stops just long enough to put safety glasses on me to protect my eyes in case “any large chunks fly out.”
Anyway, three hours later I walked out of there with a new tooth and $1200 poorer. I’m sure it will all be worth it once I’m able to hold food down and actually find the will to smile.