My Trip to the Dentist OR How Much Do I Love Getting the Six Inch Long Needle Shots in My Mouth While the Dentist Has His Three Very Large Fingers In There at the Same Time

Wow.  I think I told the story already.  See the title.  But no-oh.  I'm not finished.  Oh, hell, yes, I have much more to add.

Warning: This blog contains the word, 'fucking.'  As a matter of fact, I use the word, 'fucking,' SEVEN times.  It truly emphasizes how I feel about doctors and dentists.  Now I can say it's used NINE times because I used it two more times in this warning.  Haha.  Blogging is fun.

It was a balmy April day.  I went for a cleaning.  Whilst my teeth were being cleaned, the hygienist talked about 1)getting married in Las Vegas next year, 2) why she can't grill on her little balcony of her apartment, 3) why she can't sleep in her apartment because she needed darker curtains, 4)how she bought 'black out' curtains and whoo-hoo, they were only ten bucks someplace, 5) how everyone she knows wants to go to her pseudo-elopement wedding in Las Vegas next year, 6) how she was going to have to find a chapel to find room for all the people who are coming, 7) how she wants to buy a house but is hesitant to go out looking, and 8) something about her mother being too motherly.

All of that was done while dental tools and/or fingers were in my mouth AND I couldn't say anything.  I made grunting noises.  ("Urk."  "Snortle."  "Uh-humm."  "Nerdle.")

So that frustration aside, the dentist comes in.  I'll call him Dr. N, Jr.  Dr. N., Jr. inserts digits, and not in a nice way, and tells me that one really old filling is coming apart and needs to be replaced.  I'm able to talk by that time and say, "Well, it's probably like thirty years old because it's been that long since I've had one."  Whereupon, Dr. N, Jr. has to one up me and says he's seen ones much older.  The upshot of it is that I have to come back to do the fillings later.  ("Well, okay, if I have to.")

Dr. N., Jr. explaining the difference
between kinds of teeth.  That's a twinkle
on his own tooth, too.
Notice the highly technical chart he's using.

So a week later I'm back.  This time I'm in the chair and it's Dr. N, Sr. doing the work.  The problem with this is that Dr. N., Sr. has what I call elephant fingers.  Normally this wouldn't be an issue, but I've been told by the dentist and by the hygienist that I have a narrow arch, in fact, the narrowest arch they've ever seen.  (This equates to having a small mouth which isn't normally a problem.  If I enter a contest to see how many hot dogs I can shove in my mouth at the same time I would have a problem.  Which leads me to relate a theory I have about women who are very popular.  They all have large mouths.  I told HIM that I thought it gives men certain ideas about, shall we say, getting a particular act done.  I think it's psychological for men to associate a big mouth with it.  However, HIM related to me that a small mouth would be more advantageous in that particular situation.  That was a good save on his part.  HIM: 1 point.  Me: 0 points.)

So Dr. N., Sr. numbs it down with a large Q-tip covered with something brown and smelling medicinal.  Then he brings out the needle.  This is the biggest fucking needle I've ever seen.  And I've been around the block.  And the needle goes into my mouth.  Now my mouth has been numbed just for the needle, and I suddenly understand why.  (It's the biggest fucking needle I've ever seen and it's going into my mouth.  I abruptly understand why some people have to be put unconscious during dental work.)  He applies pressure but oh, hell, he's not done.  He goes in for another spot.  Then a third.  (It's my personal belief that the needle was large so that he wouldn't have to stop for a refill.  Example of a dentist saying something wrongity-wrong to a patient, "Sorry, but I have to stop to refill the six inch long needle with more medication.  Can you wait?")

By that time my upper lip has gone numb.  But I've got spit accumulating in the back of my throat and I'm about to drown.  He hauls his assistant in to apply suction to my spit.  (Dentists have suck work but the assistants really have the icky jobs.)

Once I'm clear from choking to death on my own saliva they run off to parts unknown while the medication takes effect.  (I can only assume they didn't want to listen to me gripe about the size of the fucking needle.)  So I took a picture with my Droid.

My View From Dentist Position 1
(Is that a speck of blood on the lamp?
Hmm. How did that happen?  That's why there's plastic
on the handles, fyi.)

Then I took a picture of my view of the water tower out the window where I had to sit for ten minutes while I lost feeling in my complete lower jaw, the bottom part of my nose, my tongue, and one of my ears.  Seriously, it made one of my ears numb.

What a View.  I think a happy face
on the side of this building would
help dental patients immensely.

Would this have been so hard to do?

And hey, here was an advertisement for the practice's Facebook page and their website on the ceiling where I HAVE TO LOOK because I don't have a lot of choices at this point.  Gee fucking whiz.  After being tortured by them for a while, I was really ready to go there and 'friend' them.  Not.



This is what I was forced to look at while
I had elephant fingers in my mouth.
I blacked out the website names
because I didn't want to get sued for libel
although it's a true story.
I swear.

When the doctor came back in he was fully ready to diminish any enjoyment I would ever have from going to the dentist.  (Having a hard time trying to think of a single good moment at the dentist, any dentist.)  The drilling of the old filling commenced.  The smell of burned dog hair filled the room.  The sound of a tooth being ground away was like a shrill siren piercing into the depths of my brain.  Another assistant popped in to say that water was magically filling the back room and it was not in a swimming-pool-yea-manner, or in other words, there was a leak in a place there wasn't supposed to be a leak.  The assistant who was vacuuming my spit from the back of my throat vanished in a blur while Dr. N., Sr. proceeded to tell me to keep my mouth open.  (My mouth was open; what he really wanted was for me to open it more.  Bet he has to say that a lot.)  And hey, it made me think of a new drinking game.  Every time the dentist says, "Mouth open wider," or "Keep it open big now," I get a shot of whatever alcohol is handy.  At the end of the session I should have to call a cab for home and not be feeling any pain from the dental work involved.  (I'm not sure if the dentist would want to stop while I did the shots.  But the hell with what he's happy with.)  (And btw, remember narrow arch, narrowest arch ever seen?  This mouth on this fat woman only opens up SO FUCKING FAR and not one lip stretching/tearing milliliter more.)  So there Dr. N., Sr. was drilling happily away and my throat was filling up with spit and probably blood and tooth debris and things I didn't want to think about.

Fortunately the assistant came back in and plunged the little vacusuck instrument into my mouth before I started to gag.  Then Dr. N., Sr. swabbed something greenish-blue on my teeth and said it was antibacterial or antifungal or antidepressive or antisomethingorother.  They would be back in a few minutes to do the fillings.  He said, "Keep your mouth open."  (Where's my fucking shot?) There I sat in the chair.  I took a picture of the dental tools because I wanted a record of the vicious things they were using on me in case I had to sue.

Do these tools look like something Joseph Mengele
would use?  I think they do.  And I think those white
tubey things on the platter are earplugs for the dentist
to be used when the patient starts to scream.
I swear.

It felt like the left half of my face was drooping onto the floor and I could still smell burnt dog hair.  (Did you know that drilled teeth smells exactly like burnt dog hair?  How do I know what burnt dog hair smells like?  Well, it's a long story and not very pretty.)  I was finally relaxing again when the doctor returned and this time pulled out a clamp to keep my mouth open.  I'm not sure exactly how he managed to leverage this clamp into my mouth but it involved pressing on my forehead with his elephant fingers while swiping around the inside of my lip with his other elephant fingers.  The inside of the clamps managed to hit the one area of my mouth that wasn't numb and pinched it viciously.  A shoe horn of some sort might have been involved.


I was making odd noises while the bottom half of my body was levitating into the air.  It looked something like a scene from the exorcist, except there wasn't a priest.  And I wasn't throwing up pea soup.  (Give me a little time.)  And I wasn't screaming obscenities because that would have been difficult considering the copious amount of things in my mouth.  (Although I was thinking several obscenities VERY HARD!)

This is my ass moving upward without
any logical means of support.
It's a physiological mystery.

So what happened?  Dr. N., Sr. pressed harder on my head.  (I still have a red mark on my forehead and it was from going to the freaking dentist.)  He muttered something about keeping my mouth open.  (I had lost track by this time of the count but the hell with it.  Everyone have a shot!)  Then he said something about keeping everything dry.

This is the point in time where the assistant attempted to murder me by shoving the sucky tool down my throat.

 

 At that time I nearly blew chunks.  (People say I exaggerate things.  Truly, I don't need to exaggerate things.  They just happen anyway.  We should have another shot here because it seems medically advisable.)

So then Dr. N., Sr. plunged something that looked like a laser gun in my mouth and said, "Mouth open bigger."  (For those participating in the drinking game.  DRINK YOUR SHOT NOW!)  I didn't even get a please then and I think even the doctor's teeth were a little gritted at that time.  I couldn't keep my mouth open if I had wanted to and besides that's why he had the FUCKING clamp in there.  He banged both upper and lower teeth getting the X-Ray gun-Jetson Tool in my mouth, and muttered something I couldn't hear.  (Half the time I couldn't tell if he was talking to me or the assistant.  I can only assume that, "Keep your mouth open," was NOT meant for the assistant unless they have a very special relationship.)



Then it was done.  My back hurt from arching up.  My shoulders hurt from clenching.  Needless to say my mouth was aching but it was still mostly numb.  (They tried to hide the three bloody lumps of cotton by quickly snatching them away but I ain't blind.)  I was warned not to eat anything for a few hours.  (Like I was hungry.  I couldn't even tell if my mouth was open or not.  I couldn't even speak properly.  If a cop happened to pull me over on the way home, he would have had to do a sobriety test because I couldn't have talked to him legibly.  "But ossiffmpph, I wuzzz ats denmoogle.  Nargle burf.")

At least Dr. N., Sr. didn't bitch about my weight.