As my readers may be aware, I hate the dentist. Up until today, I had never had anything more serious than a filling at the hands of a dental professional, but today, all that changed, because I had one of my wisdom teeth PULLED OUT WITH PLIERS!
To properly tell you about this, I need to go back to last week, though, to the time when I had a dental appointment scheduled, but seriously, I chickened out. I got up in the morning, remembered that I had to drive myself to my dentist's office, and then let him pull out one of my teeth, and then I just said, "Yeah. Not so much," and cancelled that appointment. I should also note, for the sake of full disclosure, that I lied to get out of it: I told them I had car trouble, but... not so much. This hits again on the theme of LYING and GUILT that goes hand in hand with DENTISTRY.
Unfortunately, the removal of that grody, cavitied-up, broken, nasty-ass wisdom tooth was essential, and moreover, I have been repeatedly warned of the dangers of letting potential dental emergencies fester, only to have them flare up in, say, PRAGUE, or some shit; and then having to face the mysterious frontier of Czech Dentistry... Which, I'm sure is fine, but just for the hell of it, maybe I should make every effort to avert the possibility of having to communicate any dental concerns in what I'm told is a uniquely impenetrable language, and probably won't be improved by the potential agony of a dental emergency and my deep-seated terror of any proceedure that involves pointy metal instruments in my mouth. My friends, I realized two things: first, that the tooth had to go, and soon, and secondly, that there was NO WAY that I was going to be able to drive myself to the dentist, park my car, walk into the building and say, "Hello. Please PULL OUT MY TOOTH WITH PLIERS, would you?" I was going to need some moral support. Lucky for me, I have Steve. Steve wonderful Steve, the best friend a girl could ever have, who agreed to take me to the dentist as if I were a FIVE YEAR OLD. Because, that's the kind of help I needed, people.
So, yeah. This morning, I had no choice, with Steve at the wheel, follow-through on my dental mission was inevitable, and my stomach was churning. After the nurse-lady talked me into the chair, and I made sure she knew the details of my fragile mental state, the dentist came in and shot me full of local anaesthetic, and then told me that he would be back when I was all numbed up. I sat there for ten minutes panicking about how I could still feel my gums on the inside, with my tongue, and was pretty sure that I was going to die of agony. Then he came back:
Dentist: Are you ok?
Me, totally hysterical: Um, yeah, but I can still totally feel my gums on the inside, and I think I can still feel my tooth! Meh!
Dentist, with some exasperation: That's because I haven't numbed the inside yet.
Me, not buying it: Oh.
This is turning into a long story about my tooth extraction, but it was really like lightening. About 2 minutes later, after a somewhat harrowing deep shot into my tooth's roots, and then a shocking procedure in which the dentist leaned over me with a variety of sharp pointy objects and then THE DREADED PLIERS. He applied a good deal of elbow grease, produced a lot of gross sounds, and then plinked my sick, bloody, disgusting tooth onto the instrument tray. I tried to pick it up, but reacted to it the same way I would when trying to pick up a gross insect, dropped it, and barely restrained a girly shriek.
It didn't hurt a bit, but don't think that'll help next time.