This princess is now thinking tiara instead of a crown

Dental Archive Story #3

One more dentist story, and then I promise to never go again
July 28, 2004

My crown is here. Not the one for my head, the one for my poor cracked tooth, that is now filled with some god awful goop and is the size of a pea. I have had a terrible time with this whole mess.

But today I inhaled deeply and drove myself to the dentist to receive my crown. I had been told this was the easy part. All the people with crowns, and may I say that there are a ton of crown people out there, told me that this part was a breeze. Well, they obviously did not know about me and dentistry.

The first sign that I knew it wasn't going to be a breeze was when I signed in. "Hello, Cara," the office girl sang. "How are you today?" But I heard what she was thinking, "Oh, yes, you miserable, whinny bitch, today is OUR day."

I smiled back at her and sat down, smiling broadly at all the other poor slobs waiting for torture. Out came the dental hygienist to call someone's name. "Hello, Cara. How are you today? Where are the girls?" She too was singing, but thinking, "My god, is that woman here again? I thought we finished her a long time ago."

Finally, the woman who made my beloved cap came out and called my name. "Hello, Cara," she said somberly, definitely not singing. "Are you ready to get your crown?"

She took me to the chamber. The torture chair would not recline. She pushed buttons. She plugged in plugs. She pushed more buttons. She moved me to the other torture chamber....the chamber where it all began, actually. I reclined, opened my mouth and POP off came my cap. She cleaned my nub, had me rinse, and stuck in my new crown. Immediately, I noticed the difference. It felt like a real tooth. Smooth on the sides, pointy at the bottom, just like a real tooth. It did not fit.

Out came the crown. Out went the cap maker. In came the dentist. Again, I want to state that my dentist is a beautiful, soft spoken, very qualified technician, but in my mind she will always be the torture master. She put in the crown and had me tap, tap, tap. She nodded at the fact that the crown was hitting my teeth first. She took off the crown and went to work on the sides of my crown with that horrible ear splitting device that makes me want to curl into a fetal position with my hands over my ears.

Back inside my mouth went the crown. Still no fit. She then put inside my mouth a black piece of what I thought looked like carbon paper. I had to tap, tap, tap and slide my teeth from side to side. She and the cap maker then studied the black paper as if they were grading my PhD dissertation. Again the drill was turned on, the crown sides reduced and again it was popped into my mouth. IT FIT. Oh, yes, it fit. I practically jumped out of the chair, clapping my hands in glee. "It fits," I shouted. "I can't feel it at all." You see, I am not a hard nosed, whinny patient after all, because it fits now.

They both smiled at me and sent me to have an X-ray. An X-ray? My god, I've had so many X-rays in the last three months since cracking this tooth that I can stand next to an electric pole and tune in my favorite radio station. I just told them that the damn crown fit. Why the need for an X-ray. What? I can't feel that it fits? Pat, pat, the cap maker soothes my shoulder before sticking in that giant metal pole with the small poky, scratchy tab attached that gouges your gums when you bite down. Back I go to the chamber to wait. Ten minutes go by and in comes my dentist. "Good news, Cara," she sings, "the crown fits."

I refrain from throwing my arms over my head and shouting, "Praise Jesus!" I wait instead for them to mix the cement (visions of my driveway came to mind when I heard that word), goop it into the crown, and again insert it into my mouth. She pushes it in tightly, removes some excess cement and smiles at me. "Good?" I bite down. It doesn't fit.

Now, I will admit that in that moment I felt somewhat smug. "Can't you people get this right?" I wanted to shout. That moment did not last long as my dentist stuck her finger into my crown and shoved the darn thing so hard up into my mouth I thought it would come through my nose. "Good?" she asked again. I thought about lying, but instead I meekly admitted that it did not feel good. Out came the black paper. Again the two hunched over it, whispering, every so often stealing a glance at me.

Finally, my dentist sighed and told me that the cement they were using was probably too thick and that they would have to mix up a thinner batch. They disappeared. They were gone so long that I pictured the cap maker leaning over a cauldron of cement, stirring and stirring with a long broom handle. I seethed in the torture chair. It wasn't my fault. I'm an easy going, fun loving person. Ask anyone who knows me. I do not cause trouble. I do not seek out trouble. People actually come to me and pour out their problems! This whole tooth thing was not my fault.

The girls returned and we went through the whole procedure again; mix, goop, insert, shove hard up into the gums. "Good, Cara?" the dentist asked, and before I could answer she pushed in a wad of gauze and told me to close. She ran out of the room.

I sat and silently willed myself not to throw up the foul tasting cement that was sliding over my tongue, gums, and teeth. I sat for two minutes. The cap maker reclined me, took out the gauze and wiped my tooth. I cautiously bit down. It fit. I smiled weakly and admitted to her in a soft voice that it fit. My crown was cemented in place over my pea nub and it fit! She wiped away tears. We shared a moment.

It didn't last long. Out came the torture instruments. Long, pointy, metal sticks with poky hooks. She went to work on the leftover cement in my mouth. I thought my head might actually fall off and roll on to the floor she was jerking so hard with that torture stick. Pieces of cement were falling on to my tongue and blood was pooling in the back of my throat. Thankfully, she did clean this up before attacking more leftover cement. When she stopped I sighed a tiny sigh for surely that was it. No, out came the thing that I hate more than all the other horrible things associated with dentistry.....dental floss. I actually moaned and she actually said, "Oh, yes."

She flossed the front of my new crown. She flossed the back of my crown. The floss did not come out. She pulled on the floss. It stayed. She rapped her finger around the floss and pulled and jerked and pulled and jerked. It stayed. She tried to pull the floss out from the other end. It wouldn't come out. She stood, braced her foot against the chair and pulled and jerked some more. And then she then left! I lay there with my mouth opened, dental floss sticking out, cement on my tongue, and I knew that I needed to seriously think about finding a lawyer.

The cap maker did return. She had another tool in her hand, but by this time I had my eyes closed and was doing some serious chanting to all the lords and gods that I remembered from mythology class. She picked, prodded, jerked, yanked and out came the floss. "See," she said brightly, "all done." She then pushed the button, and up I rose into a sitting position. I rinsed, and I mean to tell you that I am not exaggerating when I say the sink was red when I spit.....again and again.

She gave me some final don'ts (after I asked) and told me to have a nice afternoon. As I passed by the front desk I saw the dental hygienist and the dentist sitting tightly together, smiling brightly at me. I raised my hand and turned my head. "Talk to the hand you two torturous bitches." I thought.

"Good-bye," I sang aloud.