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.