Mouths are our ultimate pleasure orifice – reigning the title of being able to do anything and everything that other places can’t. Eyes don’t kiss and ears don’t eat and mouths can….well let’s just keep this PG.
It was when I was enjoying one of the joys that having a mouth warrants you i.e. munching on a medium-well grilled beef fillet (sorry vegans and vegetarians), when a striking pain shot through one of my left molars all the way to my ear.
A fluke – obviously. For my teeth would never turn on me – I drink milk – in coffee form, I own (and rarely use) my water pick, my sink looks like a cocktail bar of various mouth washes in all colours, and of course, I brush with my nifty toothbrush that smiles at me when I’ve dedicated two full minutes to oral vibration.
This must be some sort of mistake. I cut another hearty piece of beef and send it straight to the location of my fact finding mission.
Oh the pain.
The throbbing pain starting from mentioned tooth leading to the whole left side of my face.
Naturally, I do the only logical thing anyone in my position would do. I reach for my phone and call my dentist.
Hahaha, fooled you.
I head straight to my medicine cabinet and start frantically swallowing pills of various shapes and sizes that all offer the same promise – pain relief.
I only reserve dentists for emergency situations i.e. teeth bleaching and molars gone missing. This was just a little tooth pain, would probably be gone in the morning right?
Never in my twenty eight years of existence have I ever wanted to so desperately pull out one of my own teeth.
I had no choice but to frequent my local legal torture dealer i.e the dentist.
My tearful conversation with the receptionist granted me immediate access to the office.
Naive little me thought that meant something.
I get to the office clutching the left face in my palm and looked around wide-eyed for mercy. All I received were sympathetic looks and a pack of free floss.
I enter the torture chamber, the one chair perfectly placed in the centre of the room with the blinding light blaring down directly on top. The tiny room is pristine and sterile. And nothing is creepier then a sterile room. When have good things come out of them? Aliens use sterile rooms to prod people through their anal sphincters – and that just never ends well.
Neatly beside the seat was the tray of tools they were going to use to extract some truth out of me. They would soon discover that I don’t always floss twice a day and I have occasionally replaced toothbrushing for a couple swigs of Listerine.
I was screwed.
I could feel the dentist staring at me – his prey for a full minute before asking what was wrong.
I pointed vigorously to the painful molar – soon to be named #26.
He nodded to his two assistants.
I pleaded with him, begged and explained my phobia of everything in the world, needles, closed spaces, and dentists.
He smiled shyly and explained that he understood. He promised he would be gentle.
I opened my mouth, trusting him, and giving in.
“Oh my, that’s a big one. Ladies, come here and look at this big one.”
“Oh Doctor, that’s a bad one.”
Aren’t you never supposed to say that to a patient – like ever?
What happened to bed side manner and pretending that a dental health crisis was just a tiny bit of plaque on an incisor.
I watched as the dentist and his team cringed in horror at my one tooth. He reached for one of his utensils and started banging on the tooth.
“please make it stop, please make it stop, pleas…” I begged to the appropriate deity – which in this case I felt was safe to say was the Tooth Fairy.
An x-ray and rendition of any heavy metal tune (featuring my teeth as the drum) while later, he concluded my deepest fear.
I needed a root canal.
“No I don’t,” I argued.
“Yes, you do.” He “gently” replied.
“Fine, just get it over with,” I resigned.
“Oh, you mean today?” He asked, “oh, no we still need to find a good time for you – maybe within the next 2 weeks.”
My already gaping jaw dropped even further.
Two whole weeks?
Did he need to mentally prepare himself for my root canal?
“In the meantime, I recommend you ask you family doctor to prescribe something to calm you down. You know like Xanax, Ativan or a Valium. In the meantime enjoy these antibiotics.”
Who in the history of the world has ever “enjoyed” antibiotics? Ever?
Two weeks, stomach ulcer and a prescribed drug induced high of a lifetime later, I returned to battle my nemesis.
“Ok, I’m going to freeze your mouth using this,” the dentist slowly draws his 13 inch sterling steel death weapon used to inject novocaine into my poor little mouth.
“Will this hurt?” I asked – like a stupid person.
What was I hoping to hear – “Pfff this old thing? Hurt? Don’t be silly.”
Instead I received the classic.
And it hurt.
But that’s not the worst part.
Halfway through my procedure, my dentist felt as though he could go on no further.
“Shareen, I’m sorry but I’m going to have to stop half way through your root canal. I am missing one of the tools I need to complete it.”
“What?” I try to muster despite being gagged with gauze and some green latex designed to keep my mouth open.
And just like that, gloves were whipped off and he was gone.
Oh, you’re thinking he sealed the tooth and has actually completed phase one of the procedure.
And now all I’m left with is half a tooth with a hole in it.
Oh and pain.
But on the bright side, my next appointment is only in five days.
The moral to this story is for you brilliant geniuses and inventors – if humanity has managed a way to fine tune and engineer the perfect vibrator – then perhaps you should pool funds (potentially from those investing in dildos)- heck even start a project on Kickstarter (you can have my money) to develop perhaps less traumatic treatments.
Sweet Dreams World.
P.s. To be honest though- my dentist is pretty cool.
P.P.S In one of the photos you can actually see me trying to rip off my own hand skin.