I Think the Dentist Etched My Skull

If there was a single fact you had to know about me it should be this one:  Going to the dentist causes major consternation.  I had to go today for the start of a root canal, the appointment having been scheduled a few weeks ago.  The visit kind of crept up on me.  Bekah had called to confirm the appointment Tuesday but that was two days ago with Wednesday in between.  Lots can happen in two days time to make a soul forget something like a root canal.

At noon-thirty the Danger Ranger was cranked and driven to Williams' Drive to sever an arm at the elbow to pay for the procedure and then be forced to endure infliction of pain from unseen devices try to enjoy the nitrous oxide while all manner of activity was going on in my oral orifice.

Nitrous Oxide, N2O, is what's used to coerce myself to go to the dentist.  Not only is it a mild anesthetic, it also incites this gray matter to see, hear, and think the funniest things.  A pen and pad should be carried to try to write down the silliness but it'd be moot point;  the scribblings probably couldn't be read.

Today was only slightly different from other days in the vertically and laterally challenged recliner o'fear dentist chair.  There was less drilling and more clamping and poking and bleaching going on.  I swear, at one point Dr. R  was recreating-by-etching Michelangelo's Last Judgement inside my skull.

Dr. R and his assistant have their own language, you know.  Some of it's in English, I'm sure.  Today I'm positive I heard the word probe.  It made me shudder.  And explorer.  Now wait a minute!  Isn't to probe also to explore?  Is one a lesser of the other?  Worse yet, is one greater than the other?  And if I were a betting person, I'd bet I'd heard Dr. R say crampon.  I wouldn't put it past him -- all the better to climb on in there with, although it caught my attention when he said piton.  Piton?  Seriously???  He's going mountain climbing in my mouth??

I desperately needed to carry on a telepathic conversation with his tummy but it's right after lunch and his tummy's asleep.  At one point Dr. R shaved a piece of rebar from the foundation of the building and shoved it between two teeth straight into an eye socket inserted a metal sheath of some sort within the tooth to support the structure and make it savable.  I don't know exactly what happened but  I heard metal and cyborg all in the same sentence.  Whatever he did made my ears pop and eyes water.  I made it a point thereafter to keep my eyes open and observing, just to make sure he was watching what he was doing.

I suppose he must've felt an intense stare coming up from the multi-positional chaise lounge o' torture treatment chair.  There weren't any more sudden and severe moments of pain after I started watching, difficult when the line of sight is hindered by the N2O line (but it's not going annnnnywhere).  Tools and materials are handled quickly and effectively as the work progresses.  I forgot to watch him watch what he was doing after a while, distracted by a single lacy cobweb over the door in the corner, it's size only large enough to show air movement.

After hearing a few more words like bleach, collar, crouton, and suction, a few x-rays were made, everything was taken out of my mouth and the nitrous oxide was switched to plain O2.

Much to my delight and surprise, all of the inside of my mouth is still there;  every tooth and tongue accounted for and in fine working order.

That piton must've worked wonders...

The Dentist Had a Rumbly Tummy

I went to the dentist two weeks ago.  It's taken me that long to recovery my last good nerve, especially after taking Mama back to Ochsner's in Metarie, Louisiana to get the mini-AVR surgery scheduled.  I despise going to the dentist.  Oh.  He's a nice enough of a fellow with an easy touch.  It's just that I'm afraid of him and his implements of personal destruction drills.

 
I don't care for the probes and other things that can pick out last week's broccoli casserole from a body's cecum via a molar, either.

I used to have a certifiable phobia of the masochist parading as dentist until I realized they were actually human.  Through the years of watching them become less Neanderthal and more homo sapien I noticed that Dr. W always smelled good, Dr. A looked like an all-American Eagle Scout, Dr. C has intense eyes, and Dr. R...  Well... Dr. R. has a rumbly tummy.

I believe in getting the unpleasant done and over with as quickly as possible so I'm often his first victim patient on the appointed morning.  The conversation with his stomach tells me I'm often there after coffee but before breakfast.

Seriously?  Mayree?? You're blogging about the dentist visit and his empty gut?  Wellllllll...  It's actually about nitrous oxide and my brain and the dentist's almost-verbal digestive tract.

I don't go readily into the chair without the tank of nitrous steadily by my side.

I couldn't care less what happens after the mask is in place and the mixture of N2O is delivered to the lungs and then to the gray matter in this graying head.

As the sedating gas works it's medical miracle and relaxation starts I count ceiling tiles and wonder why they're accoustic.  I count the numbers of perforations in each tile.  I snicker to myself when I can't multiply tiles time perforations because somebody is talking in the room with me and the tank.

Dr. R is asking about cakes while administering the face-altering numby stuff.  There's no answering with the syringe where it is.  I hear his stomach ask "Yo.  Woman.  How's 'bout a chocolate cake?"  I feel my face crinkle into a smile while telepathically replying, "Curls are extra."

The dentist tries to sneak that scraper thingie around the line of peripheral vision but his tummy gives his actions away "Incoming!  Take cover!"

Scrrrrrrreeeeeetch scccccrrrratch scraaaape scrappe scrape! goes the sounds of metal on a lower left incisor.  My mind thinks of Dorothy Parker's line, "What fresh hell is this?" The GastroGeniusRumbler aka the dentist's stomach, says, "I told you so."

Fortunately, the dental carie is small and only the one drill bit, previously used to attempt to drain the Indian Ocean from Mississippi, sounds it's terror while the Voice of Stomach Karma sings to me Tom Waits' Underground.

The fluoride treatment tastes like new shower curtains smell.  Ggr (GastricGeniusRumbler) wonders if fluoride could ever be a secret ingredient in the basket on the cooking show Chopped.  Not being able to wrap my thoroughly relaxed and free-thinking mind around a good reason why it couldn't be, I pretend not to hear him.

Dr. R and his assistant are talking some cryptic code that sounds suspiciously like they know what they're doing and Ggr assures me it's almost over.  I'm actually a little saddened to realize the conversation will be finished before we've had a chance to discuss the gateway to the fourth dimension.

Surely enough, the bib is taken off and the O2 is turned on to kill my imaginary confidante clear my head.  You'd have to be there, in my mind, to understand the mirth and fear that happens simultaneously when this brain gets a dose of nitrous at the dentist's office.  I'm thankful to have had Dr. R's intelligent digestive organ to keep me company and for distraction last week.

I wonder if I should call the man and tell him chocolate curls are extra?

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Mama's surgery is scheduled for March 2nd with an expected hospital stay of 5 to 10 days.  To say she's a little apprehensive is an understatement.  Y'all keep her in your thoughts and prayers and we'll both appreciate it.  <3 Mary