Flossed lately?

I don’t throw out hate very often. And I don’t hate my dentist. I wouldn’t say that. Hell, I don’t even hate going to the dentist. It’s dental procedures that I hate. And that might just be an understatement. Ever since I was a kid I’ve had problems with the teeth. I blame weak enamel from defective genes. And sugar. Like most kids I devoured handfuls of sour patch kids like they were going out of style. I was so proud one adolescent year when I told my dentist I was off soda. Then he asked if I drank juice and I said smugly, “Like a fish” knowing that I was gaining his approval because of my vitamin intake from my oj or cranberry or berry blast. And he said “That’s a no-no, because juices are loaded with just as much sugar as soda.” It seems like that happens all the time. We think we’re doing something wise then some expert comes along and tells us to knock it off.

The procedure was to replace a crown; the porcelain had developed a small fracture with a sharp edge that was cutting up my curious and wandering tongue. (We just can’t leave it alone, can we? If we feel our bodies change: One tiny bump, one little scab, one cracked tooth… we just keep picking at it. Like a dog with fleas.) The original crown was done about 10 years ago, when I was in college and had my wisdom teeth out, a root canal, and 9 silver fillings replaced with 9 pearly white ones. That year they threw in professional whitening for free, for all the business I had given them. Needless to say, I’m no stranger to nitrous oxide. And I was a little pissed that my new dentist didn’t have any.

There I was, a brave little soldier, numbed up with a topical ointment waiting for the dreaded injection that would soon turn my nerves to jello, dragging down the entire right side of my face. Needles always sound (and look) worse than they feel. And when you imagine a needle stabbing your tender gums it’s not pleasant. But it actually felt okay this time. I mean, I barely felt the sharp prick Dr. Chu warned me about (Yes, I know, his name is brilliant). The Novacain and Epinephrine go to work on my nerves and Dr. Chu starts up the drill and goes to town on that molar.

Ah, the sound of drilling in the morning, there’s nothing quite like it. Wads of gauze are tucked into my cheeks, water is squirting, someone has a hand on my chin, the drill is shaving down that tooth, and the doctor’s headlamp keeps flashing through my closed eyelids. You’ve’ been there. It’s utter torture. I’ve got my mouth open for an hour, thinking all the while This sucks. This sucks. This sucks.

“Suction.” The dentist says to the hygienist. And she shoves the vacuum under my tongue. And I can’t help but think about the chuckles I’d release if I had a little nitrous right about now. I’m numb. I feel the pressure. And then the pain free maneuvering breaks loose with a synching pinch pinch pinch on my cheek. Holy shit. This hurts. Be tough, I say to myself. Count to ten. It’s not so bad. It’s hard to pin point the pain, my nerves are so confused (or dormant at the moment) and I’m not sure if it’s suppose to hurt this bad. Just when I’m about to raise my hand to surrender, it stops.

What was scheduled as an hour procedure turned out to be two. And after Dr. Chu wrapped up, and I rinsed, I was impatient and eager to get out of there. “You’ll notice a little bubble on your cheek from my tools,” Dr. Chu says as I depart. “Just be careful not to bite down on it.” No big deal, I think. I’ve bitten my cheek plenty of times; it hurts but it heals in a day or two.

Once inside my car I let out a whimper (I admit it). My head has been traumatized and I feel awful. I lower the visor mirror and inspect this little bubble the dentist warned me about. Picture an average sized bubble gum bubble. That’s what I’ve got stuck to the inside of my right cheek: A swollen red bruise bubbling with a white scab. I look like I’ve been punched in the face. (…And then I feel kind of badass.)

My paralysis lasts throughout the day and when I’m back at work I eat cherry jello and check email, avoiding any drooling conversations. For dinner I have chicken broth. For breakfast the next morning it’s yogurt. More soup and a V8 for lunch. I don’t know how deep this wound is, but I think I’ll be eating liquids for the rest of the week. Keep away the OJ and bring on the ice cream!