Drill Team

Why bring this up? Yesterday I had the pleasure opportunity to visit my dentist, and it was miserable. I figure misery loves company, so join me. I assume you have your tales from the chair. Here are a few of mine.

Dr. Schimmel’s waiting room was pleasant enough to an eight-year-old. There was a fishtank and treasure box (if you were a good patient and still conscious). I read Highlights Magazine, wondering if it would be a Goofus or Gallant day for me. Usually Goofus. Given my love of sugar, cavities were a given for me. I had enough silver embedded in my teeth to make Yukon Cornelius envious. Twice a year, I ventured to the throne of pain, a kingdom of searing torment to the far reaches of my jaws, traveling southward to my toes.

At age 14, I moved on to Dr. Wetzel who introduced me to floss. Actually, it was more like berated me. The cavities continued, courtesy of my high school which offered maple bars AND peanut M&M’s. Daily. Do you know those contain lots of sugar. Dr. Wetzel was horrified when he learned not only did I not floss, but I didn’t even know what he was talking about. I began flossing, discovering peanut remnants in my sink most nights. I also realized I could make my own gums bleed; I didn’t need the dentist to do that.

Fast forward to Chicago. Dr. Bryan crafted some of the finest gold crowns you ever seen. My mouth is a museum of his artistry. In fact, if you ever see me lying prone and lifeless in the street and nobody is around, you might want to go for the crowns before you search my pockets. I’m pretty sure the value of the gold will exceed the cash in my wallet. I mean, if you’re into that kind of thing.

All of this brings me to yesterday. It was allegedly a simple treatment. Four small fillings to patch some gum retention. No more than an hour, Miss Gulch told me. Novocaine will wear off an hour after the appointment and you can resume normal activity, Hannibal said. No pain afterwards, they both added. Well intentioned, but gross exaggerations on all counts.

They had to wedge one of those rubber doorstops to keep my jaw open. I required three shots of novocaine, which numbed both sides of my face, my cheeks, and my nose. It did not, however, dull my sense of hearing nor smell. Besides the shrill pierce of the augur overwhelming Steely Dan and Rich Mullins on my earbuds, the drilling odor reminded me of rotting zombie flesh. I half expected him to ask, “Is it safe?” At least I had dark glasses on to shield my eyes from the chaos of debris erupting from my mouth. At one point, he stuffed cotton under my tongue. He ramrodded it into the crevice like he was loading a Civil War cannon at Gettysburg. It was anything but civil.

I tried to sleep when I got home but no luck. When I reclined, I had some sort of sinus issue in my right nostril (yeah, tmi, I know). Ever try to blow your nose when your face was numb? I don’t know the physiology of it, but it doesn’t work. When I lay prone, I couldn’t breathe. When I sat up, I was grumpy and tired. Almost four hours after I got home, I could finally feel most of my cheeks and lips again.

Today, my jaws ache, I suspect from being forced open and the insertion of eight fingers, four tubes, a drill, and enough cotton to fuel the economy of Georgia. The teeth feel fine, thanks for asking. And I don’t have to go back until July.

Two notes to close. First, my dentist is a perfectly fine man and competent dentist. Likewise his assistant. Second, I’m as soft as a bag of milk, intolerant of pain and discomfort of all sorts. But all things considered, I’d rather have a colonoscopy. At least then I’m asleep for the procedure, and when I wake up, someone hands me a Gatorade.

Feel free to post your rants and complaints below. We’re all in this together, folks.

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