I’m lying there unable to communicate except for a flutter of my hands. I’m seeing monster faces in the pattern of the acoustic tile ceiling, because, well, that’s what I do. Pandora is playing a Billy Joel song and my dentist is testing his 20-something assistant on her 70s music knowledge. She’s heard the name…He proceeds to tell her about Billy as he knows him – heavy-set, bald, bug-eyed – in his soft and adorable Colombian accent, but can’t remember the name of the beautiful model he was once married to. My eyes are wild behind my protective eyewear, darting to the doctor, the assistant, doctor, back to the assistant, pleading with my eyebrows for them to rip the duct tape off my mouth and let me speak! He fashions my baby tooth to look like an adult one, and sweat forms on my brow as I furiously attempt to mentally transmit the model’s name to him, to throw my voice over to the assistant like she’s a ventriloquist’s dummy, but only this comes out: iheee innneee! I’m the monster in Young Frankenstein in top hat and tails dancing with Gene Wilder and putting on the ritz. Christie Brinkley! Alas, it’s drown-out by the screaming of Mr. Thirsty vigorously sucking the saliva out of the bottom of my mouth. To not be able to sing to all the pop 70s songs of my youth, to not pipe in on the conversation when little-know-it-all me knows the answers; this is true torture!
For now I relax. Or try to – my mouth has become a construction site, as the doctor moves on to removing the last of my ancient fillings from the Land of Metallica and replacing it with a crown. Singing under his breath, “Hold me closer tiny dah-han-cer,” he’s pushed the heavy drilling equipment up to 11, a cloud of fine tooth bits is spattering everything within a three-foot radius, a hot, iron smell fills my nostrils, and over the heinous high-pitched sound my stomach growls. My brain has been tricked into thinking it’s snack time by the sluice of water, metal and mmm-mmm calcium and my stomach responds with a roar like it’s never been fed before. I’m embarrassed at its gullibility.
I’m left alone while the gloppy mold of my new tooth crown is setting, and close my eyes. My teeth are clenched down in a bite, and I do some deep breathing for five minutes, until I feel something wet trailing down the side of my neck and realize I’m so numb I’ve unwittingly drooled Niagara Falls out of the side of my mouth. I’m busy cleaning myself up with my completely useless bib when the assistant comes back in. She gets busy inserting a cord around the remaining bottom of the tooth, which apparently proves difficult.
“Your tissue is very buoyant.”
“That’s what she said!” I couldn’t help but reply. In my head.
When I'm finally done and checking out at the receptionist’s desk, I try to apply some tinted chap stick but my upper lip is still numb, and I fear I’ve smeared it all over my face. I smile sheepishly as I leave, but when I get to the car and glance at the rearview mirror I see nothing but a palsied sneer, a lame Elvis impersonator in the driver’s seat. With a sloppy pink clown mouth.
For now I relax. Or try to – my mouth has become a construction site, as the doctor moves on to removing the last of my ancient fillings from the Land of Metallica and replacing it with a crown. Singing under his breath, “Hold me closer tiny dah-han-cer,” he’s pushed the heavy drilling equipment up to 11, a cloud of fine tooth bits is spattering everything within a three-foot radius, a hot, iron smell fills my nostrils, and over the heinous high-pitched sound my stomach growls. My brain has been tricked into thinking it’s snack time by the sluice of water, metal and mmm-mmm calcium and my stomach responds with a roar like it’s never been fed before. I’m embarrassed at its gullibility.
I’m left alone while the gloppy mold of my new tooth crown is setting, and close my eyes. My teeth are clenched down in a bite, and I do some deep breathing for five minutes, until I feel something wet trailing down the side of my neck and realize I’m so numb I’ve unwittingly drooled Niagara Falls out of the side of my mouth. I’m busy cleaning myself up with my completely useless bib when the assistant comes back in. She gets busy inserting a cord around the remaining bottom of the tooth, which apparently proves difficult.
“Your tissue is very buoyant.”
“That’s what she said!” I couldn’t help but reply. In my head.
When I'm finally done and checking out at the receptionist’s desk, I try to apply some tinted chap stick but my upper lip is still numb, and I fear I’ve smeared it all over my face. I smile sheepishly as I leave, but when I get to the car and glance at the rearview mirror I see nothing but a palsied sneer, a lame Elvis impersonator in the driver’s seat. With a sloppy pink clown mouth.
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