At the Dentist -- Flash Nonfiction

image from usatoday.com

I spent three hours in a reclining chair in a modern dental office this morning.

A bit more than a week ago I lost a filling and broke a tooth. Pain ensued. They would have treated me sooner, but I had too much to do to go to the dentist last week. Including a birthday party for my 90-year-old father. (See the blog post about the birthday party). I took ibuprofen.

Today, after x-rays the dentist explained that he thought the tooth could be saved. It would require a root canal and a crown. Saving my tooth sounds both reassuring and frightening at the same time. 

Save it from what exactly? Being struck by lightning? Going to hell? Most likely – drowning. If I remember right, something about having my mouth full of dental utensils and dentist’s hands always makes me feel like I’m drowning. I can never remember how to swallow. And there’s lots of water and I can’t breathe.

And nitrous oxide costs extra. I don’t care! Give me GAS!

Excuse me a moment while I breathe deeply and calm myself.

Oh, yes. From what unspeakable fate are we saving my tooth? Why from being pulled indecorously from my mouth and subsequently discarded among all the rest of the bio-hazard waste collected today in the dentist’s office.

It hurts, if pulling it will make it stop hurting, then pull the damned thing.

We, together, made the decision to save the tooth, with the understanding that if when we got down to it, that was not feasible, he would pull it.

Here’s what I learned today.

The chair is actually more comfortable than they used to be.

There is no sink with running water for you to spit in. They have a vacuum hose to suck up the water they put in your mouth and the spit your mouth liberally generates. (It’s still hard to figure out how to swallow – indeed, whether or not to swallow – and how to breathe.)

The dentist is no older than my son. At least he’s not as big and brawny as my son, so if I decide to get out of that comfortable chair and leave, I can. I don’t think he can stop me.

They still drape you with a lead-lined cape. Which reminds me of Superman and kryptonite and makes me a bit anxious. And they still ask questions as though you can answer them orally. I think not. And the idea of nodding or shaking my head while there are sharp and whirring things in my mouth is out of the question.

They now have a monitor mounted above the chair so I can watch Netflix. This is supposed to relieve anxiety. I suppose it does, if you don’t mind looking between the right (his right) upper quadrant of the dentist’s face and the left (her left) upper quadrant of the assistant’s face, assuming the dentist is right-handed. And both wearing protective masks. I guess I might be the kryptonite.

Okay. I watch Doc Martin, a British TV show about a high-functioning autistic GP in a small Cornish village filled with barely functioning, but highly humorous locals. I never tire of watching Doc Martin. But as it turns out I spend most of the morning with my eyes closed. I listen to the TV show via large headphones. I think it does relieve anxiety. At least until Netflix pauses streaming and asks if the viewer wishes to continue viewing. The dentist and his assistant are quite unaware of the pause because they’re busy in my mouth. Which is as it should be. I point at the monitor. The dentist hits the correct button and we’re on again.

Someone has invented a special oral appliance for root canals since last I had one. No matter that it’s not the most comfortable thing, it does provide support so you don’t have to consciously hold your mouth open. It also corrals you tongue so you don’t have to wonder where to put that unruly organ so it’s out of the way.

All went well. Arrangements were made to return for installation of the permanent crown. They made me a temporary one today. They warned me against eating anything hard or sticky. Which, of course, reminded me of my cousin Martha June and the Slo-Poke sucker she tried to eat with a new partial plate back in the mid-fifties. But that’s a different story.

By lunch time I was home and the local anesthetic was wearing off. Discomfort returned. A root canal removes the nerve from the root of the tooth, thereby eliminating sensations from that tooth.

But it still hurts.

I think the most important thing I learned today is that yes, the broken tooth needed the work. But it was the tooth next to it that hurts.

Now where did I put that ibuprofen?