For those of you able to do math in your head, you will have pegged my age at around 40. You win a kewpie doll! You may also then realize that I am at that wonderful age where I start seeing doctors with other specialties besides “General Practitioner.” I’m still avoiding the slippery glove of death but there’s one I couldn’t manage to evade – the endodontist.
For years my dentist has been threatening to send me to the endodontist for my periodontal disease. Back it up, ladies, I’m spoken for. And when something disheartening happens, like the Cubs lose, my Dad is not above spreading his pain by telling me of his many visits to have his…gulp…gums scraped. So between my Dad and my dentist (and my many early years of neglectful oral hygiene - still spoken for ladies) I knew the day of reckoning must not be far away. I was right.
I recently found myself spending a few anxiety-riddled moments with my new endodontic specialist going over x-rays, showing me where my bifurcations are pitting (for real), and prodding my gumline repeatedly with a small metal javelin while rapid-firing numbers to an assistant. “Two. Two. Four. Three. Oooh, six," (with a disapproving wince/pucker). She started this face-jabbing exercise by telling me that we want all the numbers to be one. That was the last time she used the word “one.” She ended the exercise by saying she thinks we are going to be able to catch this in time. Those words did not have their intended calming effect.
By the time she finished, my sphincter was spasming out of control, I was sweating over a minimum of 95% of my body, and I was white-knuckling the dent-o-lounger waiting for my now-blurry endodontist to describe my impending gum scraping. Then she began playing a video of the procedure I would need. “Can I make you more comfortable?” offered the assistant. “Sure, could you anger a nest of hornets and stick it down my pants? Front or back – your choice.”
Then, through the thick sarcasm and bitterness I was able to see, miracle of miracles, the video showing that the Mengelevian gum scraper has been replaced by a teensy, painless laser. Laser? No more scraping? She nearly laughed that I thought they still scraped. Hell, they wouldn’t even scrape gums at Gitmo! So I managed to pass my first bout of middle age with flying colors and both middle fingers pointing victoriously skyward. Hey Dad! Hey dentist! Scrape this!
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1 comments:
There is seriously nothing worse in this world than the dentist.. Ugghhh
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