Dr. Teeth and the electric mayhem acid test

Let me take a minute to talk about my teeth.

Now, if I was talking about the current state of my teeth, it would qualify as a short story at best. There’s just not very much left to tell. If I was telling the history of them, however, it would have to be published in volumes, like textbooks about the 100-year War.

Let’s just skip to the present-day and I’ll fill in any gaps that come up (no dental pun intended).

A month ago the latest crown dropped out of my mouth. This has been happening to me for more than 20 years and I didn’t think that much about it. When I was in my 20s I was a major meth-head and as a result, have had terrible dental karma ever since. Even while in my 20s, the few times I visited a dentist it was always a credit dentist in the ghetto and my business partner and I would tailgate the dental appointment. We’d arrive early and sit in the car in the parking lot slamming beers, smoking joints and doing rails. None of the dentists spoke English and the place was a warehouse, with sheets between dental chairs instead of walls. One time I got caught adjusting the ratio of laughing gas to oxygen, I remember getting cursed out in Korean by a guy named Kong but was pronounced ‘Kang.’ Or vice versa.

In my defense, there was a lot going on at the time.

So when the latest crown gave up the ghost I sighed but didn’t give it much thought. Having a crown re-attached is like filling up my gas tank to me: Oh geez, is it that time again already?

Brevity, brevity. I still have TV I want to watch tonight.

So anyhow, I quit doing speed 20 or 21 years ago and quit abusing prescription drugs about 10 years after that.

Till today.

When I went to the dentist a couple weeks ago to get my crown reattached, as usual, I encountered a worst-case scenario. I’m embarrassed that I was even surprised.

The dentist, a lovely young lady whom we shall call Dr. Teeth, informed me that there was not enough tooth left to attach anything to. We were going to have to have put in a post. You know, drill a metal stick onto my jawbone and glue a fake tooth to it. Except, because I had already had the tooth root-canaled, first she was going to have to remove the root canal, which of course was installed with the intention of being permanent.

And then we had to wait three to six months for the procedure to heal before I had to go back and she could drill the metal spike into my head. Jesus Christ!

As the date of my appointment approached, I became more and more frightened of the excavation that was going to be required.

Oh wait, let me skip ahead to something irrelevant but fascinating and gross. I heard The Missus on the phone tonight, telling someone that Dr. Teeth (the dentist, remember?) had told her that she had filled the huge hole she scraped in my mouth with bone matter from corpses and cows. I don’t have anything to add at this moment. As you may imagine, I’m still processing that piece of information.

Getting back to this morning’s ordeal, The Missus had already agreed to drive me so I could get as gakked beforehand as my relative sobriety would allow me. I took my full day’s allotment of anti-stress meds for breakfast and before I left the house, I also took the two valium left over from my last oral surgery as well as a couple of OTC sleeping pills. My dentist doesn’t use gas – usually a deal-breaker for me – but she’s so damned good.

To give you an example of my dental karma, I was originally sent to Dr. Teeth after another local dentist had performed a botched root canal on me. So we met when she had to re-root-canal a tooth that had already just endured a horrific trauma. I swear to god, I wouldn’t be surprised if I go home to glory some day straight from the dentist’s chair.

So I was pretty loaded by the time we arrived for my latest punishment. And then I mentioned that I should have called ahead and had her prescribe me a couple of valium for this morning’s procedure. She was surprised that I hadn’t and asked me if I’d like one. I asked for two. She said, “Well, you’re supposed to take them an hour before you come.” I told her not to worry, I’d chew them.

The drugs arrived and I chewed ‘em right up, washing them down with some tepid tap water. She scrunched her face and asked me if it tasted okay. I shrugged and said it tasted like chicken.

Then she hit me with the big needles and I tell you what, I may have been relaxed, but those shots still hurt like a mothfucker. I don’t know if it was new drugs or new places she was poking me, but the pain radiated from the injection point down the inside of my mouth like a thick, burning trickle of lava. But hell, I knew better than to complain. If the shots did their job, it should be the last actual pain I felt.

All that was left was the fear.

Then she gave me my regularly scheduled teeth cleaning while we waited for the shots to take effect. When it came time to get down to brass tacks, she asked me if my mouth felt numb. I was so blasted out of my mind on stress-relieving agents by that time my speech actually slurred. It was embarrassing but I think I convinced her it was the novacaine.

Here’s where I cut to the chase: She ended up having to postpone then cancel her next appointment because my one-hour procedure ended up taking two and a half hours. Of digging and scraping and drilling and more digging and scraping and drilling. And she still didn’t get 100% of the tooth out. She told me there’s a tiny bit of tooth left that is so deep she couldn’t risk further excavation. Presumably, she was at risk of drilling all the way through my bone and out of the bottom of my chin. And that there’s a ‘tiny’ chance it could cause me problems down the road. Which would require a repeat of today’s horrific ordeal except next time I would make damn sure I was unconscious for it.

The saving grace, if there was one, was that I was so twisted on the dope that the whole thing passed for me in a timeless state of constant fear and noise and pressure and discomfort and more fear. If I had to guess, I woulda guessed 90 minutes at best.

Two and half hours of digging and scraping into my skeletal structure, then filling it with the remains of dead cows and people.

The weird thing about that kind of experience is, no matter how badly you try to overdose yourself before the procedure, by the time it’s over and you’re out of that chair your body has dumped so much adrenaline into your system… I would compare it to how fast you sober up when the police car behind you hits his lights and siren. I actually walked out there surprisingly conscious and coherent. And to Dr. Teeth’s credit, as usual, the only pain I feel now that all the drugs have worn off are the poke-points of the needles, which is literally unavoidable.

Still, I have to go back in a week and have the sutures removed and two fillings replaced at the baseline of couple of my front teeth. Last time I went in to have one of those little fillings patched up, I ended up with a surprise root canal. That was just a couple months ago. What do you suppose the odds are with two bum fillings I’ll walk out of there with simple replacements? And my front teeth are extremely sensitive to pain. I always have to have to have her inject me again and again during the procedure. Last time it was so bad, she had to inject the painkiller directly into my jawbone.

It promises to be a lovely time. I can tell you right now that Dr. Teeth will not get out of the office at 1PM the way her receptionist explained to me she had to next Friday. She said that to me so as a joke I said, “Well then, how about noon?” expecting a laugh. Instead she wrote it down and handed me an appointment card.

Does this story have a point? Fuck no. If I had to have a point to every story I wrote, I’d expect to be paid for it. And I don’t see anyone lining up to pay me for writing.

I’ll be sure to drop you a line after next week’s alleged quick in-and-out office visit. A good time – and karma – is guaranteed for none.