Bent Words

Bent Words

October 03, 2007

I knew something was up when my new dentist, the only one covered under our new insurance at work, asked me what I thought *I* should do in regards to the possibility of having four root canals on my front incisors.

“Hmmm, what does Laura think she do?”

Laura thinks her dentist should do his job and tell her what he thinks Laura should do.

Laura also thinks that four f’ing root canals pretty much sounds like the epitome of all things CRAP and that she might need a second opinion.

Furthermore, Laura thinks that she should not have to pay for an office visit which entails her own superior consultation from supposed dental degree holder. In fact, Laura thinks Dr. H should pay her for such inherent knowledge.

So, whatever. I didn’t have time for a second opinion so instead I suggested to my new dentist that he should, perhaps, take a stab at calling my old dentist since Old Dentist happens to have a pair buried somewhere deep down in his khakis.

I mean, dude rides a Harley. He must have balls.

New Dentist called Old Dentist. Apparently this provided to be an ill source of enlightenment for New Dentist since his final opinion was of the “Let’s shoot for four root canals, Laura, just in case” variety. In the end, I agreed.

Yes, let’s shoot Laura. Please.

“Heh, heh, Laura,” said Dr. H., “quite a sense of humor you have.”

It wasn’t my sense of humor kicking in, making me giggle like a nervous geek of a high school prom date, it was my sense of fear for my own dear life. It was that Red Flag popping up in my head saying (yelling ferociously), “Don’t let this hack drill holes into your head!”

*Side note for future reference: That’s what Dr. H. stands for – DOCTOR HACK.*

Seriously. You’ve all heard the saying, too. “This is about as fun as a root canal.” Whoever the poor bastard was making up that phrase obviously wasn’t referring to the FOUR root canals he just had the day before. He was, most likely, referring to one. One single root canal. Not four. Not four in one day. At the same time. Otherwise, I’m fairly certain that said phrase would have been a bit more intense.

Like, “This is about as fun and life fulfilling and glorious and enriching as having not one, not two, not even three but FOUR root canals in one sitting! Yes, folks, it’s that f’ing good. Almost as good as this here leg amputation… Almost.”

Or something like that.

So I guess I wasn’t really looking forward to this one.

Yesterday, just before said head drilling, I realized that it probably wasn’t going to work in my favor to have gone out the previous night. It was worth it to see my team (Cincinnati – 1-2) lose to my mother’s pick (NE – 3-0) and to misplace my cell phone somewhere between the bar and the ten blocks to my apartment and to have not eaten since much, MUCH earlier in the day and to return home to find nothing in my refrigerator resembling food but I probably should have just laid low before the intensity of Tuesday.

Rhesus Monkey Laura, folks. Mostly.

Perhaps the only good thing was that I might have still been drunk by the time I made it to the dental office.

In the dental chair, Dr. H. asked if I had any questions but, before I could make the room stop spinning long enough to answer him, he had already shoved a damned plastic tarp into my mouth which would prevent “anything weird from falling back into my mouth.” Whatever “weird” things he was referring to which were destined to fall in my mouth without this tarp made me gag. Just a little. Or it was dry heaves. I don’t know.

The Novocain kicked in and three minutes after the drilling of head commenced, I wanted to back out. The damned drill broke. My super strength, rock hard (fake) incisors broke the damned drill. The assistant scrambled to find another one as I squirmed nervously and repeated, “Oh. My. God,” in my head at least seven times. I wanted to leave. Mid drill.

“Small hole,” I said to myself. “Can’t be much damage. Must leave.”

But something inside me (the alcohol coupled with other face numbing agents) kept me glued to the chair.

“You okay, Laura?” asked Dr. H.

“Ah ah.” I said.


“Ah ah.” I replied.

He obviously had no idea ‘ah ah’ is negative in dental speak while ‘uh huh’ is generally viewed as the proverbial thumbs up.

An hour later, the new drill hit a nerve. A big nerve that goes through the central part of the brain and apparently extends to every extremity of the body.

“Fuck,” I thought, “I didn’t drink enough last night after all.”

No fear, more Novocain is here. We called a delay of game, seeing as that took entirely too long. And so, with more of Laura’s life force drained, we commenced. Two hours later, we found that I had sustained so much trauma that my damned canals or roots or brain or whatever wouldn’t stop bleeding. Apparently, this makes it difficult to seal the holes.

I had to have temporary fillings put in each tooth and I get to do it all over again next week Tuesday in order to have little drill-looking things inserted into my head.

He prescribed steroids and I don’t know why.

The antibiotics I get. But steroids? I guess I should have asked. I suppose I should have thanked him for mangling my mouth. Instead, I just dashed out into the overly bright afternoon sun and made a bee-line for home.

I’ve never been more pissed off in a car or otherwise – stupid traffic everywhere! I almost hit two cars and one curb. I barely navigated the stop lights and why every asshole out for a Sunday drive was out during lunch hour on a Tuesday just boggled my mind. I couldn’t feel the left side of my face and so I couldn’t tell if I was blinking properly. Something was definitely off. It was as though my right eye blinked and my left eye just sympathized. It was annoying.

Telling the Walgreens pharmacy clerk about how I couldn’t speak well because I just had gross amounts of face numbing drugs stabbed into my gums with at least three different needles didn’t provoke much for tenderness. She just blinked and I was just jealous. Number one, that she could blink and look normal doing so and number two, that she could be coherently miffed on the other side of a counter as I wish I could have been at that moment. She simply reached out her hand to take my prescriptions while I coddled the drool I hadn’t noticed in my free hand (I had no where to put, to be honest).

Apparently my employer switched our insurance (something which I was formerly well aware of but somehow it escaped me during that intimate moment when payment is deemed necessary) and thus I was cast away like a bad chick flick. I had to return home, dig blindly through stacks of unopened mail accumulated on my living room floor, drive back to the pharmacy, blow off my former neighbor who was (yee f’ing haw) having a baby and so excited to see me and wait in a line of drug-crazy customers looking as though they had just overdosed on downers while still standing up.

Finally, I had my drugs and was ready to crash.

But, all in all, it was about as much fun as having a damned root canal (or four) on your only ‘day off.’

Written at 10:08 p.m.