This morning I spent two hours sitting in a dentist chair, inhaling the pleasant aroma of my own powdered bones as one half of my husband/wife dentistry tag-team tore a chunk off one of my back teeth and then replaced it with a ceramic replica thereof. Not a crown, per se, but some kinda state-of-the-art CAD/CAM technology wherein he basically mocked up what the tooth chunk in question should look like… and then the machine actually went ahead and milled it. He threw on a little Elmer’s Glue, shoved the new ceramic thingy into my mouth, waved his magic UV dentist wand over the whole thing… and voila — I was the proud new owner of a big, bad artificial tooth.
All things being considered, actually, it wasn’t that painful an experience (beyond paying for it). Which is a welcome change of pace for me. In the past, I’ve had significant issues with dental anethesia — as in, times when it hasn’t actually worked. Some previous dentists have blamed it on the possibility that the nerve cluster in my lower jaw isn’t in the normal place — hence, when they repeatedly plunge in a novocaine needle without subsequent numbing effect, it’s somehow my fault.
To be honest, I don’t know what it is. I’m just very glad that today wasn’t a repeat of my own personal Marathon Man experience.
It was probably seven or eight years ago, when I was living in another part of the country and – to be honest – had neglected my dental health for a few years. So when I finally hunted down a local dentist who took my insurance (here’s where I note that one of the great joys of working for a small satellite office of a bigger company is that they sometimes force you to use their local health/dental insurer… despite the fact that nobody in your area actually has, uses or has ever even heard of that insurer), imagine my surprise when it turned out to be Dr. Giggles.
Dr. Giggles seemed friendly enough, and more than sympathetic when his initial check-up revealed significant decay on a molar and a neighboring tooth. And so, trusting simp that I am, I returned a week later to have the lower right section of my inner jaw hollowed out and filled with some kind of composite goo.
My first clue that things weren’t going my way should have come as I sat in the waiting room. And sat. And sat. And watched other patients get angrier and angrier, to the point that they finally complained to the receptionist, demanded some kind of explanation, and stormed out. Until finally – 90 minutes after my scheduled appointment – they brought me in to the torture room from Hostel the procedure room.
I made myself as comfortable as possible on the squeaky plastic of the Mercy Seat dentist’s chair, and a few minutes later the good doctor and his assistant/hygienist/minion came in. My mouth opened, a needle slipped into my jaw, and they told me, “We’ll give it ten minutes, and then we’ll begin.” So I sat. And waited. And waited. And waited. And – close to half an hour later – they returned. I noted that my mouth didn’t seem to have that all-over-numb sensation that usually accompanies novocaine. They responded that they were probably using a different kind of anesthetic than I was familiar with, and not to worry. And with that, they started to drill.
Almost immediately, it was apparent that whatever anesthetic they were using, they weren’t using it correctly on me. I was acutely aware of every turn of the drill, which – in case you’re wondering – is not an entirely pleasant sensation. So, despite the fact that there were several fists in my mouth at the time, I began to voice my displeasure. “Mmmphgggpbbbttt!” I said. “What’s that?” they replied, as they continued to drill. “MMMMPHGGGGPBBBTTTT!” I responded more emphatically.
They removed their fists and implements of pain, at which point I explained that for whatever reason, I was not enjoying the miracle of painless dentistry.
“Oh,” Dr. Giggles replied. “Sorry.” And a minute later, another needle slid into my lower jaw.
Some ten minutes later, they returned. “Is your jaw numb now?” they asked. “Not really,” I answered. “Huh.” said Dr. Giggles. “That’s funny.” We all looked at each other for a minute. “Well, let’s give it another shot.” he said. “If you’re still feeling pain, let me know.”
“Uh… okay.” I answered. Sucker.
So they started drilling again. And while the pain wasn’t quite as sharp as the first time, there was still absolutely no doubt that I was feeling WAY too much of this procedure. But hey: I’m a guy, and a guy doesn’t want to whine about physical discomfort. So I decided to try to tough it out.
Two minutes of drilling, smelling the smoke from my own bones and not a small amount of extreme pain later, I let out a groan. Dr. Giggles looked at me warily, as though he were listening to child tell him about the dinosaurs that ran out of the woods during recess that day. “Is there a problem?” he intoned, making it entirely clear that he was in little mood to deal with my foolishness.
“Yeah, there’s a problem” I answered. “I’m still feeling the drill.”
“Are you sure you’re not exaggerating a bit?”
At this point, I actually sat up straight in the chair. “Are you kidding me? Look, I don’t know if you’re using a weaker dosage than you should be, or what, but the novocaine isn’t working.”
He actually rolled his eyes at me. “Fine. But I can only give you one more dose. You must have a low tolerance for pain.” I decided against a colorful rejoinder of “Fuck you, clown” and instead let him know that a third dose was probably a good idea, as they’d failed to get the desired effect from doses one and two.
So. A third needle jabbed into my jaw. They walked out of the room, and for ten mintues I sat there, debating whether or not just to get up and walk out. Fuck it, I decided. I was already here, they’d already started drilling… I’d just deal with it, get the fucking thing done, and get on with my life.
They came back, and the drilling commenced for a third time. And I felt it. Good God, did I feel it. And while I didn’t say anything, it was impossible for me not to grimace and squint my eyes as he scraped bone from bone and bore closer to the nerves in my teeth. After a few minutes, he stopped and said, “You’re still feeling this, aren’t you.” I nodded, as by this point I was basically incapable of speech. “Should we keep going?” I took a deep breath, then nodded again. “Alright. We’ll try to get through this as quickly as possible.”
Keep in mind, we’re talking about the deep drilling – and then filling – of not one, but two large teeth in the back of my head. This is not a turn-it-around-in-10-minutes procedure.
They set back to work, and were probably another 5 minutes into it – my entire body clenched to the edge of spasm, my eyes streaming tears, the corners of my mouth twitching uncontrollably – when my right hand, which was wrapped around the armbar of the dental chair with what can only be described as a death-grip, suddenly wrenched up… and we all heard a loud SNAP.
I broke the arm off the chair.
“Well,” said Dr. Giggles. “I’ve never seen that before.”
From that point, they went into a three-minutes-on, one-minute-off approach where they’d drill and work for a few minutes, then give me a minute to recover, then begin again.
Eventually – after what felt like approximately eleven hours – they finished, and I fled.
My insurance ended up not covering the charges for the procedure, which meant that I got to pay out-of-pocket for the experience. In retrospect, however, I should probably consider myself lucky that I didn’t have to buy them a new dental chair while I was at it.
Anyhow. Today was much better. Even if my jaw aches like a bastard.
