I never thought I’d be celebrating a dentist. I have a long, sordid history with dentists. From the hygienists I met who felt like they had to excavate in order to do a cleaning, to the doctor who pinched my cheek to make shots more tolerable (and giving me whiplash in the process) I’ve never had good experiences with dentists.
In fact, the last dentist I had had left me so traumatized that I swore I’d never go to another dentist again, that all of my teeth could rot from my head before I’d step foot in another dental office again. I’d had a crown that had come off, and I went in at their first available appointment to have it put back on again.
Apparently it had not been sealed, and I spent about three hours in the chair having bits o’ teeth being picked out of my jaw.
Bits o’ teeth.
I also have a complicated relationship with novacaine, something that, while evident before, became excruciatingly so as I had bits o’ teeth dug from my gums.
Novacaine and I go way back. We have history.
Novacaine is like Lucy with a football. You’re numb. You’re numb. Sure you’re numb. Oh, wait, not really.
Once, it wore off during a root canal a good five minutes before he killed the nerve. I’m pretty sure he had to use that curvy pokey thing to extract me from the ceiling.
Another time, I simply could not get numb. He gave me two shots at a time, spaced out about 15 or so minutes between sets, until I had been given the maximum number. Four? Six? I can’t remember. I couldn’t get numb. I didn’t even get a pre-numb tingle.
“Nancy,” he said, “we’re going to have to try this another time.”
So he sent me home, where I promptly fell asleep only to awake a couple of hours with an entirely numb face.
So yeah, I had a complicated relationship with novacaine and a very uncomplicated one with dentists. I hated them. After the bits-o’-teeth debacle, I swore I’d never go again.
But then I had an emergency, and someone at work told me about Dr. Jones.
Lyrical Fool 