I remember ...

[seejay]

... the last time I had a molar pulled. I will never forget it. It took upwards of an hour, and three scrawny little women to get it out. It broke in the process and my jaw had to be scraped to remove the fragments, and it was excruciating. I was 29 years old. My son Jake was 6 months old. It was 1989.

Less than six months later, I lost a filling that had been put in when I was 14. It is this tooth that I had pulled yesterday. So, basically, the tooth needed to come out for 18 years.

I won't go into all the details about how I put it off for so long. Suffice to it say I lived on aspirin until the nerve died and then lived on antibiotics when it got infected. Antibiotics are controlled, so there was quite a bit of creativity involved in getting them.

Here about 3 or 4 weeks ago I got tired of the whole mess. I felt bad all over, even with illicitly obtained antibiotics, and knew that I was basically playing Russian Roulette with my body so I made up my mind to get the thing yanked out despite the paralyzing phobia that had developed since the last tooth came out.

"I'm gonna have to be stoned out of my mind," I told my daughter Jillian. "It's the only way I'm going to be able to get through it."

"You mean drunk?"

"No, no, I don't think even that would work."

I did some research on the Internet and found out that Diazepam is the anti-anxiety medication that is most commonly used for dental phobia. It just so happened that I had some that had been prescribed by my regular doctor. The beauty is, I had control over it. I could take as many as I wanted (safely, of course) until I felt not even the slightest stirring of anxiety. I took one the night before, took one the next morning at 5:30 and took one at 10:30 ... a half hour before my appointment. It worked. Jillian drove me to my appointment, and as we went along, I found humor in the oddest places.

"What're you gigglin' at, now?" Jillian asked, as we sat at a red light.

"That guy ... look at 'im," I pointed, "he's got a nose like Karl Malden."

"Don't point! Who's Karl Malden?"

"Ne'er mind."

As we waited for my name to be called, Jillian announced that she had to go to the bathroom.

"No," I said.

"What?" Completely stunned expression.

"You can't--what if they come for me, and you're not here?"

"I'll find you."

"But ..."

"Mom, I'm 22 years old ... I think I can manage."

Sure enough the lady stuck her head through the door and called my name the minute Jill left. I wrinkled my nose, and she laughed.

As I got settled in the chair, I explained all about my phobia and how it came about, warned that I would probably cry, moan, whine, shake, and maybe even throw up. The nurse, who couldn't have been more than 19, leaned over and began to reassure me.

"Dr. Prim is the best ... you won't feel a thing."

I knew this was a lie, but decided that if she were half right, I would be okay.

I was indeed stoned ... fuzzyheaded ... tingly all over. I was ready. Jillian had returned, and was showing me pictures in a National Geographic Magazine while I squinted and tried to make out what they were, so she could laugh at my outrageous answers. Then I heard a click, click, click, click ... and a little man appeared at my elbow. He was sporting a George Hamilton tan and a platinum blonde, gladiator haircut. He looked like my hairdresser, and didn't look strong enough to pull apart a pair of rolled socks. Oh, Lord.

"Now ... exactly what is it that you're afraid of, honey?"

On the verge of tears I went through the whole story again, and he patted my hand.

"Well, we're not going to let that happen again," he promised.

He started by giving me a series of shots, while reminding me to "breathe ... just concentrate on your breathing ... in and out, in and out, hear yourself breathing, feel the air fill your lungs ... "

This happened 3 times. I was beginning to think that he was using the same dosage of anesthetic he would use for a bull elephant, and I began to have faith in him. He clicked himself away and clicked his way back four or five times, and finally deemed I was ready.

"Okay, darlin', I'm just gonna find my path," he said as he came at me with some fuzzy looking chrome tool. Jill took my hand, and by the way she was squeezing it, she must have thought I was in agony. I felt some pressure, and then I felt him begin to pull, and while it didn't really "hurt" it stung, and I was inordinately grateful that I couldn't see what he was doing, because Jill could, and her face was white as flour.

But despite the fact that this tooth was unhealthy, and should have come out long ago, and had broken at the gum line, leaving him very little to work with, what I didn't hear was the "crack" that I heard the last time when the tooth broke, and then there it was, that awful tooth, at the end of that awful tool, in the hands of the little man with the George Hamilton tan and the gladiator haircut, and he beamed at me, and was my new best friend.

"You did tho gooood!" I drawled out of the half of my mouth that wasn't numb.

"Well, you did too, sweetie!" he replied, and clicked away to his next patient, while I examined my nemesis, that was now tucked into a little square of gauze, and laying on a metal tray.

Sometimes, somehow, the stars all align themselves and something magic happens and we are able to conquer our fears and come out the other side feeling like a victor instead of a victim, even if it means copious amounts of narcotics and connecting with other people practically on a molecular level.

I now know, in my heart, that I can go to the dentist and may even be able to go without the Diazepam, and without Jill there to hold my hand. Of course in my hopeful visions of future dental visits, it is none other than Dr. Prim I see bending over me, and I realize that half the battle is finding someone who knows me, and I suspect that if the day comes that he ups and moves to Cucamonga, I just may have to follow him.

 

[brit]

Congratulations Like the dialogue approach...thanks for sharing.

 

[seejay]

You betcha.