Status Post

So here it was, Saturday already. With the good feelings of Christmas behind me, the extent of my mouth pain began to strike me down. Saturday night I couldn't eat or sleep and the Tylenol with codeine wasn't holding me. I woke up Sunday morning in a fog with a swollen and immobile jaw, but could do nothing about it because I had to work that night and it wouldn't be prudent to head to the hospital for a night shift with narcotics in my system. Strangely, by night fall at the hospital last night I began to feel a wee bit better.
As I drove home from baby-catching this morning, wide open freeways ahead of me, I started to feel pretty darn positive. I could probably get rid of this tooth problem without any interventions, for sure.
Have I ever told you how Lars used to want to be a dentist? He loved teeth back when we were little guys, back when we both had a great metabolism and with great abandon could eat the gourmet French fries at the deli I toiled away at in my high school years. Well it is true, Lars had big dental dreams ahead of him. We'd put our heads together late at night, while our other teenage counterparts were making out, and plan our future of me making it big in Hollywood while he attended UCLA dental school. It was a pretty sweet gig we had going. Ah me. Anyway, Lars interned with a dentist when he was in high school and he actually learned quite a bit.
Funny how that dental internship learned him real good how to deal with his crazy wife.
When I got home, I was ready to tell it on the mountain that my teeth done got saved. I mean, not a stretch, after all it is the season for miracles. And just who, who, who, who are you to tell me that one of those tiny little miracles couldna crawled up into my teeth and laid some baby miracle eggs, huh?
Mighta been the lack of sleep. Mighta been denial. Call it what you will. Lars'll not call it anything, instead, he'll call every endodontist on our MetLife plan to get me an ASAP consultation. Which he did. For someone who refuses to floss his teeth, he sure knows a lot about teeth.
And so, with enormous boobies (from not having nursed all night and the pump en route to DC back to my expecting and imminent SIL), I have yet again found myself in an awkward situation while I try to explain to toothy professionals why I (a well-insured, employed, middle-class white woman with four children to model good behavior for) have not been to the dentist since my Ann Arbor days. Yes, Ann Arbor dentists are better. Yes, the Ann Arbor dentist knows about my stainless steel medical equipment phobia. Yes, the Ann Arbor dentist always readily admitted that my teeth were better than Lars' because I flossed. And still, it is no excuse.
So basically what happened is that my poor bones and ovaries were exposed to 10-kabillion units of radiation for the x-rays taken as proof for the insurance company that this was indeed a case of emergency mouth death. Then, my mouth was propped open with a propper upper and then, OMG, came the stainless steel syringe with a ginormous needle which was used not less then 7-times to (per the endodontist) "numb things up, make the pain go away." Okay, whatever crazy person. For the next 2-hours that crazy sadist lady took circular saws to my head and cut holes in my skull, all the while my mouth was being rammed open at 180-degrees by that very unpleasant propper opener. My funny husband, he's so funny (I'm laughing), thought to pack along my iPod for me -- as if listening to Bob Marley and Green Day was gonna make the whole procedure a bit easier. Though I dutifully listened, little could be done to address the rising panic that was festering just under my ribs. At the end of it all, the professionals told me that I was a wonderful patient and they really didn't see how I had a phobia because I was "just so calm." I think I probably just blacked out.
Well the deed is done. I've gotta imagine that it's some sort of love, or something, that inspires a man to schedule an emergency root canal for his wife. Makes me wonder, with the recent observance of our 10th wedding anniversary last week-ish, what kind of appointments will herald our 20th anniversary? Gotta be love . . . (this is me signing out as I drift off into the codeined mystic).