Is it Safe?

 

You probably wouldn't know it from my pearly whites, OK, let's be honest they're not as pearly white as I'd like them, but dentistry and me have a troubled history.

It started when I was 7 years old and my brother kicked me out of the top bunk bed (we were fighting over who would get to sleep at the higher elevation) and I landed square on my face. Knocking out my two beautiful formed permanent front teeth. 

That, in turn, kicked off a tortuous lifetime journey involving flippers, bridges and many exceedingly long needles inserted into my upper gum.

I won't bore you with the details of those adventures because frankly I'm not sure anyone wants to read about anyone else's dental issues. Nevertheless I'm going to proceed telling the story of the Tooth #30, First Molar.

Oh you didn't know your teeth were numbered and had names?

Last week I was returning home from my second afternoon walk of the week to the local dog park. I'm semi-retired now and rapidly spending my Stay-Out-Of-Dirty-Nursing-Home Money, so I have have time for long leisurely walks. The walking, I'm told by my orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Sassoon (yes, a relative of the famed Sassoon clan) produces a natural lubricant that quiets my creaky Titanium hip replacement joint.

Wow, apparently I've moved into that stage of my life where not only do I have multiple medical maladies but I've also become friends with the folks who treat them. We can't be that far away from riveting tales of my constipation and Haiku poems regarding temporary loss of bladder control.

On my return from the dog park, I decided to make a detour to the Bill Botts baseball fields, just to tack on a few more steps and fractions of a mile. I've become a slave to my iWatch and the useless data it collects. 

Making me what some would derogatively term, "a mileage whore." But the magnificent view makes the name calling worth it.

The mighty Pacific Ocean is seen in the distance on the left. And my humble abode is somewhere near the center, close to the famed water tower of Sony Studios (formerly stately MGM studios). 

As I was minding my business and grumbling to myself about the park patrons who choose not to use to employ the many well placed garbage cans, I bit into a piece of Trident gum. The gum bit back and I heard a god awful cracking in my mouth. 

I knew immediately that it wasn't good. And it wasn't.

Earlier that day I was told by Dr. Stern, my jovial dentist who likes to tell me that he has an advanced degree in administering pain, also told me that tooth (#30 for those keeping track), needed a root canal, which he would schedule for next week. 

The next day I was back in the dental chair which, after so many visits, seems to have contoured to my 177 lbs. body. Oh yeah, I'm gonna work in a weight loss humblebrag.

As Greg (Dr. Stern) and his new assistant hovered over me...

"We're gonna have to take out half of #30, the part that's wiggling."

"Ugh."

"Lower surgical forceps, please, " he said to Vivian. (I'm not sure her name but she looks like a Vivian)

"Anesthesia?" she replied.

"Oh no, we won't need that."  (we might not need it, but I do)

"Ugh."

There's nothing dainty about lower surgical forceps. Which is a euphemistic term  for what amounts to be Mouth Pliers. It was like a scene from an old Marx Brothers or Three Stooges movie. He grabbed Mr. Wiggly Half A Molar and started yanking. When the yanking did not produce the desired result, he started twisting and torqueing the tooth. If you're grimacing while reading this, just think how I felt as this glorified dental carpenter went about demo-ing my mouth.

What I thought should be a 5 second removal turned into a 55 second sneak peak of Dante's 6th Ring of Hell.

"It's a squirmy little bastard, isn't it?"

That's not what you want to want hear when you're going with no Novacaine. After the tugging and pulling, twisting and turning, #30 finally yielded. 

Before leaving, I asked Vivian if she could wrap the squirmy little bastard up. If I wasn't going to get Novacaine, or even a lollipop, I thought, at the very least, I'm coming away with a blog post.