My sister-in-law has to have a crown put on one of her teeth. A few days ago she blogged about this on her website, http://www.susan-mythoughts.blogspot.com/, and asked for someone out there to tell her all about getting a crown. Since I had at one time received a crown on a tooth that I had cracked I let her know that is was no big deal, just time-consuming. I mentioned that I had some problem getting it all filed correctly, but that really it was no big deal. I reminded her that I had blogged about it on my old website and that I would find those entries and forward them.
Yesterday I found the blogs. Oops....guess my memory is going because apparently, it wasn't all roses, butterflies, and happiness.....
To The Dentist I Will Not Go
June 2004
I cracked one of my teeth. It is an upper tooth hidden safely in the back of the left side of my mouth. At the time of the crack, I was happily sucking down margaritas and munching on salsa and chips with my brother and his family. Life was good. Then I bit down on a chip. Suddenly I was seeing stars while still on my first margarita. The pain was amazing...a shooting, jabbing, knife-like stab again and again inside my mouth until it eventually climbed up my neck and settled inside my head. Sigh. I was off to the dentist.
I have to say that I despise going to the dentist. It isn't the dentist herself. My dentist is a beautiful, soft-spoken Indian woman with a gentle touch. She is a very nice human being. It is the whole idea of dentistry. The torture chair that looks nice until you realize what will occur in it. The loud, shrill, high pitched electrical water prick that will someday summon the neighborhood dogs. The latex-gloved hands of a stranger roaming around inside your mouth. The dental floss that falls apart between your teeth. The misery of bleeding gums. I feel that I have spent so much time (my mother would say money) in a dentist's office that every time my head falls back, my mouth automatically opens--dental chair or not. I much would rather go to my GYN for a pap smear then face the dentist.
But face her I did. She gave me the bad news that yes, I had cracked my tooth. Then she spent the next hour and a half torturing me, first with the three shots of numbing potion and then with the shrill noise of the drill as she ground down my poor cracked tooth. She kept patting me and telling me how well I was doing. She would lurk over me, her eyes peering out over the top of the face mask and she would give me the countdown. "Only 5 more minutes, Cara." Then back she would go to her drill. When she was finished and my poor tooth was as small as a newborn baby's thumb, she gave me the pat and turned me over to her hygienist. Thus began more torture.
This woman stuck the foulest, most horrible goop all over my tooth nub and then forced me to bite down on a mouthpiece for what seemed like an hour. It was nice of her to sit me up while this occurred, but of course, I realized soon enough why she did this. It was so I didn't die on my own saliva.
It was as if my tongue had summoned it. "Come quick," I imagined my tongue shouting. "An intruder is here. A terrible, nasty tasting intruder sent here to kill our lady." The saliva rushed out of every faucet in my mouth as if to wash away the intruder. Great. Except to get rid of the saliva I would have to swallow it, along with the intruder. Which I did. One time. Then I found out exactly what that paper napkin is for around your neck. By the time the timer went off, the napkin was saturated, my eyes were watering and my lips felt as swollen as if I had been stung by a thousand bees.
But it wasn't over yet. No, a temporary cap was made for the tooth. This meant the hygienist got to shove the cap onto my nub several times until I agreed that when I bit down it felt just like a normal tooth. Then more goop was applied to the cap, more waiting for timers to buzz, and more drilling to take off any excess goop on my teeth. Finally, I could rinse. Which I just want to say is not easy when you have zero feeling in your lips. Then I got to go home to lick my wounds. But alas, that wasn't to be either as my tongue was either hiding or was too exhausted to get to work.
Thank god I don't go back for 4 weeks.
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