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You Know the Drill
You’ve got exciting news, but if you share it, you’ll ruin the surprise. What do you do? I’m not going to spill here, you’ll have to come back next week for the payoff. Instead, I’m going to tell you about a toothache I’ve had off an on for God knows how long. In the wee hours of Friday morning, it woke me up. And then it woke me up again. I suddenly realized that maybe the dentist might know what to do, so I texted him around 6am and asked to be seen. Quickly. Thankfully, he obliged, and by 930am, I was in the chair as Dr Sam conducted a fact finding mission on the lower back right side of my mouth. He artfully wielded a combination of air hose, hammer, and stick, as I provided pain level feedback. Teeth begin to crack over time, turns out more than one. Which one is causing me to jump down the elevator shaft? Through the miracle of education and competence, Dr Sam isolated the problem area, numbed it with several rounds of anesthetic, and proceeded to excavate in preparation for the temporary crown. He had me out of there in roughly an hour and most of a good day’s wages.
The anesthetic eventually wore off, as do all good things. My pain tolerance is not what it used to be, or maybe never was. What would happen if I ever had to face real pain? I contemplated my soundness of mind, and would God forgive me if I were to shove an 8-ball down my throat, and could Penny’s replacement husband handle an 11+ toothache. Bastard.
It’s Sunday now. The toothache, like magic, completely disappears. And then it comes back, with a vengeance. The difference, now, is that I can tell I’m on the downhill slide of it. I’m likely to outlive this dental vendetta and be ready for next week’s Thursday Friday Saturday Sunday wild blue adventure. Which I can’t wait to tell you about! Except I will wait. If you already know, shush up. And if you’re wondering whether to go see the doctor or the dentist or some other essential advisor, the answer is almost always “yes.”
Sing, Fat Lady, Sing!
A man jumped off the Golden Gate bridge in 1954, and his note simply stated, “yes, I did it because of a toothache.”
Monday. A turn for the worse. I reached out to Dr Sam, who sent over a Motrin script (I said no to the codeine). I haven’t picked it up yet. Advil was giving me a stomach ache, so at some point Sunday night, I decided I was going to gut this thing out. Bedtime Monday night, I resorted to chanting “die now” in my head, over and over, till the angels suggested a more upbeat “go to heaven.” I fell asleep for about two hours, and when I woke up, I was at Pain Level 13. Up I went, out to the kitchen, two Advils, followed ten minutes later by one more for good luck. Up and down, in and out of bed, then two magnesium horse pills from the bottle that’s been languishing in the medicine cabinet for months. I don’t know that magnesium citrate actually does anything, but looking it up on the internet afterwards, it seems that in females over the age of 65, 84% of them get toothaches. Everybody else feels much better about everything else, except for the people who lose enamel. Does it also dissolve toothache pain? The Advil must be working. After a hot shower, which will have the added benefit of buying me some extra sleep at the tail end of this miserable night, I no longer feel compelled to embrace an unsuspecting 3am semi. This too shall pass. Death chants don’t work. Giving up doesn’t work. Slogging on is all we can do till the Advil and the horse pills kick in. If the fat lady sings before this devil night is through, The Courage Run is automatically scheduled. You’ll be on your own next week.
Music to Drill Teeth By
Inspiration eludes us when we need it most, hiding in plain sight, just below the surface of a throbbing premolar.