I had my second tooth crowned this morning. Veterans may know that this consists of drilling the old tooth into a powdery oblivion, and then replacing it with a temporary crown for a couple of weeks until a more permanent one is molded.
My first crown was over ten years ago, which is probably why some of the details were sketchy.
I set the appointment for 8:00 a.m. on a Monday. Normally there's a staff meeting during this time. So it was already a partial success.
I didn't eat or drink anything beforehand. I figured there would be enough physical considerations to deal with already without having to be squirming in the plasticky chair trying to restrain a bowel movement.
The dental hygienist Karen I only see whenever I'm having corrective work done. That puts her at a disadvantage in my psyche, in a Pavlovian sort of way; Karen = drill going in my mouth and the smell of burning bone going up my nostrils. This makes it all the more impressive that I enjoy her, mainly because of her chair-side manner. She is a fountain of stories, talks all about her family. She happens to have a son in the military so, in advance of the presidential election, I get a full briefing on the state of our armed forces to help make an informed decision.
My dentist is likewise awesome. I chose Dr. Anderson's practice 20 years ago because of his catch phrase: "We cater to cowards!" (I am blessed with self-awareness if nothing else). It's an honest motto. Plus he's a fascinating storyteller as well. My memories of the dentist as a six-year old, admittedly biased, involve a cold man peering down in draconian fashion over a mask while aides restrained my limbs and ignored my screams.
Naturally, the heart races at least a few beats faster as the chair starts to recline.
And then the glasses are placed over the eyes.
And then he leans in.
Thank God I was born in an era where anesthetic has profoundly advanced (I uttered this phrase mentally about two dozen times during the two hours). If I were born in the 1800's I'd have been beneath the soil for several decades by now. They swab a little something on the gums, and wait while the tingle starts to work. That helps reduce the anxiety that might otherwise result when aims a gigantic hypodermic needle into the roof of your mouth three times, inserts, and holds it there for twenty seconds each.
Numbness sets in. It's drill time.
I should note that there was also a step where they took an impression of my tooth so that he could build the temporary tooth, and the off site dental lab could build the new tooth. I had an awful experience as a pre-teen where the tray was a bit too large for my mouth, kicking off a parade of gag reflexes that could've been used for a bad movie soundtrack if a recorder had been handy. This went fine, and because my concentration was on the impending excavation, I can't recall exactly when it happened in the sequence.
Dental drills sound like chainsaws for dwarfs, high-pitched whines that crescendo and fade with each squeeze of the trigger. There's always the couple practice runs that he makes in the air to test that it's working, and not to terrorize the client.
At this point I always, ALWAYS think of the old Dustin Hoffman movie where they use a dentist drill to torture him.
That's when I start my litany of prayers of thanksgiving. Anything to distract my mind from the involuntary clenching of my shoulders and tightness of breath, although I do often focus on breathing slowly.
I find myself giving thanks for the talented dental staff.
For my family.
For my health.
Sometimes I spin off on random gratefulness tangents over the sound of the grinding, the sight of smoke, the scent of heat, the sensation of machine gutting bone.
Thank goodness for my voice, and my fellow basketball coaches, and for my students, and the nice weather.
And then, it's done. The drill goes into the sheath for good.
My muscles and breathing return to normal (though I must admit, as fun as dramatization is, I was pretty calm on the whole, probably due to surviving my prior Inquisition-esque childhood experiences).
Not an ounce of pain from start to finish.
Inserting the new tooth is as easy as opening mail.
Smiles all around.
With a few simple, common-sense instructions (don't floss the temp crown, try not to chew on that side), I'm out the door. Just a little more artificial than when I walked in. Kind of like Captain America or the Hulk. Ready to take on the world. At least after I can feel my lips again.
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