I’ve confessed my deep-seeded and completely irrational fear for my kids being burned on this blog in numerous posts, so now it’s time to confess my own crazy fear that has absolutely nothing to do with the kids. The dentist. I am sure that a lot of you out there are afraid of the dentist. I sort of take it up a notch.
How bad is it? I have to take a Valium to get my teeth cleaned.
I’ve been determined that this fear not be transferred down the line to my kids, so we’ve been playing dentist and successfully going so well now that the kids don’t even want me to go back with them for teeth cleanings anymore. (Evidently, it’s not cool to have your mother hold your hand when there’s nothing more frightening than fluoride involved.) They are so comfortable going that they high five each other for getting checked out of school to go to the dentist (little freaks).
I, on the other hand, might be persuaded to sell my soul to the Devil never to set foot in the dentist’s office again. In fact, I told my dentist that if I were offered a straight up deal that if I ran stone naked through Macy’s during the day after thanksgiving sale, all three floors, and my little jog would be broadcast on the evening news at 5:00, 6:00, and 10:00 in order to never set foot in the dentist’s office again, I’d take that offer in one heartbeat. Don’t even have to think about it. Post my big rear all over YouTube so long as there’s never another root canal or filling in my future.
So, imagine the fun, fun, fun it’s been around my house when I cracked a tooth last week. I had one of those really old fillings from the 70’s that just finally gave it up. I had to go in and get and X-Ray of that. The next morning, I went across town to have a root canal. Two days later, I had to have part of that redone since it didn’t all get straightened out on my first visit. The next day, I had to have a small filling done where the crack had evidently been there awhile and had messed with the next-door-neighbor tooth.
And today I’m having the Icing on the Dental Cake--a two-hour appointment to build up the broken down tooth and install the temporary crown and make the mold for my new permanent crown (which will naturally require yet another visit). Holy Mother of God. That’s like two full weeks of the dentist and approximately 10 hours of chair time in five days. I’m sweating and breaking out into hives as I type this. I don’t think that a single Valium is going to cut it.
The other funny thing in this is that I am a hoot in the dentist’s chair. See, when they are doing their business in there, I squirm around making these terrible, I-think-I-swallowed-a-bug faces and moaning all of these little noises that sound like I’m in pain. Now, to be clear, I’m not in pain; I’m in terror. But still, between the grimacing and the little grunting, whimpering noises, the dentist or technician is obviously worried that he/she is causing me pain. Not so, I’m just freaking out from the noises and the weird grinding noises and the touching and the fingers in my mouth and the smells and bad tastes. (Breathe, breathe, breathe.)
So, the dentist keeps asking over and over during any procedure, “Are you okay?” “Everything fine, Mrs. Johnson?” “Are you in pain?” Bless their little hearts. They really want it to be okay, but it’s not okay. Not even a little bit okay. It’s not even in the same county as “okay”. But since I can’t scream, “Get your dadgum hand out of my mouth and put those instruments of torture far, far away from me, You Bad Mean Evil Doctor!” I just nod and say through the Novocain and cotton shoved in my mouth, “I’b opay” (translation: I’m okay).
Today I’m taking in my music so that I can (hopefully) bliss out during the two-hour long procedure. Hey, every good scary movie depends on a sound track. Of course, no matter what I choose to listen to during the visit, it’ll have to go straight in the trashcan on the way out of the door. Wouldn’t want to spark any weird flashback scenes later.
And since all I had to pay out of pocket for that entire party was $175.00, all I can say is Thank you, Jesus for insurance! Oh, and Merry Christmas to Me, since I'm probably putting a copy of the paid bill in a box and wrapping it for myself.