I went to the dentist today to replace some fillings. Apparently 15-year-old fillings don't last forever--or, at least that's what my dentist told me.
Perhaps I am just gullible.
So there I was, pretending the dentist chair was just a long, green chaise lounge. After the initial round of anesthesia, the dentist asked me if my lip was numb. I said no. She frowned and said, "Paula, another dose of hemlock." (Or whatever drug it was.) Paula gave it over, and within 10 seconds my lip was numb, which signaled that the torture--I mean the procedure--was ready to begin!
You've been to the denist. You know they stuff you full of cotton on one side and prop you up with a jack on the other. They spray you with air and water, gossip about who's dating who around the office, cram and jam their instruments around your mouth and tell you to keep your tongue out of the way.
Well guess what. Some time during all of this, my heart began to beat out of my chest. I could literally see my paper bib going bum BUM bum BUM. It began to beat faster, and while the denstist and her assistant wondered why Bobby bought all those new clothes, I felt the darkness closing in on me, like when you're going to pass out.
I kind of raised my hand and said, "ungh."
"Are you okay?" the dentist asked. I shook my head.
I think I had a panic attack!
Even after they sat me up and stuck that sexy oxygen tube up my nose I felt wrong . . . off . . . not right. They hooked me up to the blood pressure monitor and my breathing was rapid and like when you do that shuddering cry, which I last did when I found out vampires aren't real and I'd never have an Edward of my own. It was freaky, because this time the reaction was purely physical and not emotional.
They surmised it was that extra dose of epinephrine they gave me with the anesthetic. Apparently they have anesthetic without epinephrine available too. I shall file this information away under "Things That Are Not Helpful To Me At This Moment."
So after my little break they resumed work. But guess what.
The anesthesia started to wear off at the end.
With my mouth jacked open and my tongue dutifully out of commision, I said, "I can feel my nerve."
Except it sounded like "Uh a uh a uh."
You sound like a rooster, right?
Well, I endured. Because they couldn't really understand me, and I surely did not want another dose of meds.
On the plus side, I watched the History Channel for 2 hours straight!
And that is the end of my story. My unfortunate, miserable story with the silver lining that I learned a lot about the Bubonic Plague.
P.S. I will floss my teeth two--no, four--times a day for the rest of my life.