I should’ve known. I really should’ve known.
Sitting in the waiting room at the RotoRooter guy’s office, what happens to come onto the speakers but the Eagles. The fucking EAGLES, man. Not as bad as Rush, but still, up there on my Run Like Hell list.
Finally, after what appeared to be twenty-six hours (not the two minutes it took), I was called back into see my (new) dentist. First question, “Do you use nitrous?” I figured, if I’ve gotta be in agony, I may as well be wasted, too.
“No,” the nurse replied, “just local.”
So she strapped another one of those, “IMMA CHOKE YOU TO DEATH, ASSHOLE” X-ray things in my mouth, as I vowed to brush my teeth regularly. 8 times a day, even! 12! Anything so I didn’t have to have bite-wings in my mouth again.
The dentist with kind eyes came in and took a look almost instantaneously. I hadn’t even strapped on my iPod yet, and there he was, all bright-eyed and smiles.
(boring aside: I always, ALWAYS, listen to you, Pranksters. Y’all told me to listen to some tunes and I fucking DID. Er, was going to. I also held a tube of chapstick like it was my talisman)(if I knew what a talisman was)
He poked around in my mouth a bit, jostling my shredded tongue, before he sucked in his breath.
Not a good sign.
Then, he went over and took a look at my x-ray. He sighed more deeply.
Fuck. How can I make two jovial dentists sigh in one fucking week? I should win an award for Worst Tooth Ever.
He then swiveled his chair over to me and said, the regret seeping out of his pores. “Well, we can do two things. I can TRY to give you a root canal, probably a couple procedures, then your dentist can work to lengthen the root and in a couple of years you may be back here.” That was clearly not the preferred method.
“OR, we can just extract the tooth. There seems to be some decay at the roots and I’m concerned by it.”
Well hell. I ruined his day AND made him concerned. Is there anything worse than hearing, “I’m concerned about you?” I think not.
It took me less than a second to come to my conclusion: “Let’s get that fucker outta there.”
“Okay,” he said mournfully. “We don’t do that here.”
Tears pouring, I began the process of calling every tooth-yanker in the area, begging them to get me in. Found one who’d do it, but only if I got there NAO. Which was no problem since I was approximately five feet away from their office.
They, at the very least, had The Nitrous. And no Eagles playing in the waiting room.
I went back, begging the nurse to hold my hand, after she told me my headphones were too large to use during the procedure. She cranked up the Christmas music instead, and I began Aunt Becky’s Nitrous Trip. I realized that while under the influence, it was the most relaxed I’d been in years. Stress? What ME Stressed? HOW DARE YOU SIR.
The ceiling began to swim and I swore that the Christmas music began to skip, like the worst industrial remix of Deck the Halls, ever. But I didn’t care. I was RELAXED, motherfucker.
The tooth extraction went well, overall, except that I’m now missing one of my back molars. Perhaps Santa will bring me a new one, rather than the stocking full of, um, nothing I’ll probably get this year. (Long, LONG story).
I went home, where The Guy On My Couch, Ben, promptly made me some chocolate frosting that I couldn’t eat, while my kids clucked and fussed over me. (Daver was off at a play in the city all night).
Today, I look like an overgrown Cabbage Patch Kid, half of my face swollen and bruised. The pain is better, for sure, but I was just informed that I am still unable to chew things for the next few days. Which is probably good for my waistline.
And I’m overwhelmed by the amount of slack-jawed yokel jokes I’ll be able to make at my own expense for the next 50 or so years.
Or I will be, once I stop bleeding.
I bopped my way to the dentist yesterday, looking happily forward to having a tongue that wasn’t shredded to ribbons every time I moved, spoke, drank or breathed. Sure, I didn’t like the idea of a needle the size of a McDonald’s straw being unceremoniously shoved into my delicate gumline, but shit, my tongue!
WON’T SOMEBODY THINK OF MY TONGUE?
I waited and waited until 2PM, my appointment time, which seemed inexhaustibly far from whatever moment I was currently in.
Finally, the moment came when it was time to leave. I nearly lept into the the dentist’s chair, barely pausing to give my very talkative dentist a cursory “Yo, Dawg.” First thing he said, after we got through our discussion about how delicious almonds were and how they are, “Of The Devil,” was this, as he gazed upon the damage to my tooth: “Oh.”
Normally, I’d be okay with this level of noise, but for someone who spent ten minutes describing almonds and how GOOD they are for you, this was a downright frightening sound.
“Well,” he said, “let’s take some pictures of this tooth and I’ll optimistically get a filling kit ready.”
Not the most encouraging sounds one can hear. OH WELL, I thought as I bounded off to be gagged by one of those X-Ray things I’m halfway convinced is a torture device to teach kids to floss, I bet I’ll be LUCKY.
Famous. Last. Fucking. Words.
No sooner had my ass grazed the dental chair, did the hygienist hand my dentist the pictures of mah tooth. He sighed. Deeply.
Maybe, I thought, he’s sighing at the BEAUTY of my tooth. I bet it has a really awesome nerve or something. He’s geeky like that. I bet that’s it!
When he finally grabbed a piece of paper to draw a picture for me, I saw his face. It had fallen. He had a case of The Sads. He drew a picture kind of like this:
After he showed me that, he’s like, “Are you SURE you’re not in any pain?” That’s how you know shit is FUCKED the fuck UP.
Sadly, he wrote me a referral to someone who treats these things. I’m getting a “root canal,” on Thursday which, as far as I can ascertain, is sorta like a rotorooter for your tooth. Or something. I’m sorta “la-la-la” *covers ears* about the whole thing.
I’m hoping that, at the very least, I can get a new tooth that’s made of gold and covered in diamonds.
Then, I’m on my way to starting my grill.
I’m pretty sure there’s a piano hovered neatly above my doorstep, ready to crash on my head the moment I walk outside. I’m totally using the back door, FYI. And no, you Uncle Pervies, not THAT back door.
I’d accepted the poisoned cake. I’d accepted glass-filled eyes.
But the tooth? That just seems excessive.
Yeah, that’s right. I broke a tooth yesterday. ANOTHER tooth. That would be the second tooth in six months.
And you’re probably thinking, “That Wiley Aunt Becky, she looooooves gnawing on boulders,” and you would be wrong. I prefer pebbles, if I’m going to gargle rocks at all (I have a small mouth).
See, I was all, “LOOKIT THIS DELICIOUS ALMOND! I AM GOING TO EAT THIS DELICIOUS ALMOND!” so I did. Then, I was all, “THAT FUCKING ALMOND DONE LODGED IN MAH TOOTH SOMEFIN’ WEIRD.” Apparently, I was also playing the part of Cletus, The Slack-Jawed Yokel.
So I stuck mah old finger on into my mouth to inelegantly dislodge that particular bit of feisty almond, when I all but sheered my finger off. Either that was some fucked-up almond, exacting revenge upon me for gnawing on it, or my tooth had broken. (the third, less popular option was that I’d eaten a razor blade, but that was quickly discarded as a possibility. I am dumb but I am not THAT dumb).
I waddled to the bathroom to attend to my bloody stump of a finger and to look in a mirror.
Sure enough, as I bled every-fucking-where, I saw it. A chunk of my waaaaaay back molar was gone. Presumably down my digestive tract, probably wrecking havoc and possibly killing me dead before the day is out (I don’t have high hopes of seeing tomorrow).
My tongue is shredded to ribbons from having the audacity to move, and I’m trying to fashion a tongue-bra to tide me over until 3:00, when my dentist can finally see me.
And fix the second tooth I’ve broken this year.
I expect a lecture on stress and how I should find some relaxing things to do, like take a bath! Eat some yogurt! Run five miles! But I won’t be listening to him. I’ll be too busy working on my i(don’t bother using it as a)Phone.
Hope he’ll get out of the way so I can see my screen. Otherwise a lot of people are going to be getting really bizarro emails.
If I don’t see you again, Pranksters, know that I love you. Each and every one of you.
(*waves* Hi Lurkers!)
And if I am back tomorrow, expect that I’ll be missing an arm, a leg, or possibly a face. You should probably start a betting pool.
Just, you know, sayin.