A Date with Dentistry

A couple of weeks ago, I cracked one of my molars when I bit down on something that had been a little overcooked.  It wasn’t a pleasant sensation, and required me to do something I hadn’t in approximately twenty-five years: visit the dentist.

I’m sure you can imagine how thrilled I was at the prospect.  But, a cracked tooth is nothing to ignore, so after a quick chat with my parents to learn who their dentist was, I set up an appointment.  

The following Thursday I went in hoping to resolve the crack that afternoon.  The digital x-ray shattered that hope beyond repair when it showed a huge cavity underneath.  Et tu, Molar?  Since a root canal was too expensive and would likely not save the tooth, it had to come out.

I should mention that, apart from some dental hygiene work, and one broken front tooth at age 7 (crushed-rock parking lots and untied shoes don’t mix, kids), I had never had any real experience with the more… involved side of dentistry.  In the week and a half between diagnosis and extraction I got a number of assurances from friends and co-workers that it would be painless, and that almost nothing would go wrong.  Despite such assurances, my brain oh-so-helpfully supplied nightmare scenarios for me to ponder, cranking it up to eleven on the morning of the extraction.

The tooth itself, apart from the odd twinge when I bit down on it, didn’t hurt at all.  I think it must have been trying to convince me not to have it yanked.  “Yes, I’ve cracked, but I can change!  Give me another chance!”  Oh molar, if only I could.

My extraction was yesterday.  It was over in fifteen minutes, and was indeed painless.  Though not entirely uncomfortable – I suspect the ideal width of an open jaw for dental work is always five degrees more than the jaw’s range of motion.  The worst part was the tooth breaking in two when the dentist hauled it out.  The crown left – the roots stayed.  So: more tools, including one which I’m sure was actually “pliers” or maybe “priers”, but which I swear I heard was named “criers”.  If that was my brain sending me a message, then a little too on the nose there, brain.  But, finally, the last tool went onto the tray and in went the gauze.  All that was left was to pay the bill and go home.

The tooth breaking in half practically doubled the bill.  I could still afford it, but as I paid the bill I had the impulse to go back in, find the offending tooth, and perform my best Megatron impression.  “You have failed me for the last time, Starscream Molar.”  Thankfully, discretion prevailed.

All in all, an experience I could have done without, but it was an education in fears vs. reality.  Now for the next few days, I’ll have to stick to a soft food diet while the gap heals.  Hmm… I wonder if I can claim ice cream as a medical expense?