Hello to my six (sometimes seven) readers. You know who you are, even if I don't. Thanks for taking time. We are all busy, it's hard to keep up with my escapades when you are no doubt dealing with your own challenges. Send me a link to your blog. I promise to subscribe. Meanwhile, because you are here, let me catch you up on the progress of my move.
I didn't want to make her feel bad, so I listened to her sales pitch about my options, thinking to myself, lady, no offense, but there is no way I will spend $6,000 to get a tooth screwed into my head. That is how much I paid for my Ford Focus, just saying. I'd rather have a car than a fancy white tooth any day. I admit, I might have felt differently if it had been a front tooth. I pretend I don't care how I look but I don't want to give my brother a reason to call me Snaggle Puss.
After the consult, my dentist gave me a referral to an oral surgeon and told me to tell them I'm in pain, really lay it on thick, to motivate them to get me in sooner rather than later. Accordingly, I made the call and whined to the oral surgeon's receptionist about how much pain I was in, waaahh, poor me, and she said, "I have an opening on April 23," as if appointments were a scarce asset and she was doing me a huge personal favor. Then she asked, "Are you on antibiotics?"
"Why, no," I said.
"Oh," she said, packing a lot of meaning into one small sound. I'm great at interpreting tone of voice. She was saying you can't be in that much pain if you aren't on antibiotics and what kind of fly-by-night dentist did you see who didn't immediately prescribe antibiotics? Loser.
I aimed a half-hearted eyeroll into my phone, in too much pain to really care. I wanted to use my own snarky tone of voice to imply who are you calling a loser, clearly you don't keep up with the latest scientific literature, which says antibiotics are only necessary for patients with heart conditions or heart valve transplants. Loser, yourself.
Not worth the trouble. It takes precious energy to be snarky when your jaw is throbbing. After disconnecting, I called my dentist's office. Sandi always answers the phone. I think she lives there.
"Wah, wah, wah," I said, or something similar, I forget.
"Oh, poor thing. I'll talk to the doctor and call you tomorrow," Sandi said.
Two days and many ibuprofen later, I got a call from Sandi. "I've checked around and no one has any appointments for three weeks. I don't understand it."
"I cannot survive three more weeks of this," I said. We made an appointment for the next day for the dentist to do the extraction.
I was nervous, not sure why. I've had braces—four teeth were culled to make room in my tiny head for the rambunctious survivors, so I'm no stranger to extractions. However, that was a long time ago, when I was certain the universe was not out to get me. Now I know better.
The assistant took my blood pressure with a gizmo around my wrist. Do those things work? I'm skeptical. She told me the numbers, which never make sense to me but I know any number above 130 is bad. My number was a lot higher than 130. "That is very high, isn't it?" I said.
"Yes, it's a little high," she agreed. I looked around for a crash cart, just in case I had a heart attack during the procedure. Then I thought, what the heck. There are worse ways to go than lying in a comfy chair surrounded by nice people in masks.
The dentist came in. The fun began. After one glance at the gigantic plunger of Novocain, I shut my eyes and didn't open them again until I was so numb I wasn't sure I had a jaw anymore. I clasped my hands in my lap in a death grip, felt the waves of vertigo ripple around my head, and hung on for dear life. Once my face fell off, I was fine. The actual extraction was a breeze. A couple yanks, and it was over.
"Bite on this," she said. "Do you want to keep your tooth?"
Half my face managed to chuckle.
That was Friday at noon. It is now Sunday at 9 pm. I have discovered that the only way to survive this ordeal is to take the recommended dosage of over-the-counter pain relievers. Half-doses left me sweating in agony during the night. No more of that. I only have so many tank tops.
On the bright side, I have almost bought a car! It's big, it's white, and it's a beast! Tucson, here I come.
