So, I have this bum root canal and it hurts like a mother.
That is to say, the dentist I had to practically pick from a hat out of my universities crappy insurance plan years ago directed me to a young local D.D.S. who apparently specialized in shoddy work .
That is to say Ė I should have known better considering his office was located outside of town in a practically deserted strip mall next to a Payless Shoes and the local OTB.
Oh my dear starshines, I am not making this up. I so wish I were.
But when youíre young and penniless you got a crack the size of an Olympic swimming pool in your molar Ė and youíre nothing but swimming in pain Ė choices have to be made on the fly and shoddy root canals are sometimes performed without your knowledge.
And sometimes these choices come back to haunt you years later in the form of pain not unlike the worldís sharpest and pointiest, freezing cold, metal ice pick being pierced right through your toothís enamel directly into the pits of your pulpy gums digging until it manages to scrape a live nerve.
But truth be told, Iíve been fielding this pain for quite sometime now. Iíve been putting off a visit to the dentist for a few reasons.
1. I am a big old scaredy cat.
2. Iíve seen that Dustin Hoffman scene in that Marathon Man movie a few times, thank you very much.
3. Vanity will kick a molar painís ass any day. I didnít want to have to risk the chance of having some periodontal surgery done that later requires me to sport some sort of medieval looking metal head gear right before my sisterís wedding. Not with 332 people I hadnít seen in a million years plus 3 video cameras and a professional photographer on hand. Fuck. No.
4. I am a big old scaredy cat.
5. The holidays.
6. Still hadnít won the lottery to pay for the 50% of the One! Million! Dollar! Surgery! my current companies crappy insurance plan will not cover.
7. My birthday was too close. Fellow party goers might want me to like, share the dentist prescribed Vicodin or something! Feh!
8. I donít have a dentist. Well, I did. But itís been awhile since Iíd seen him (no, not the shoddy work guy!) but heís now a million miles away where I used to live anyway.
9. Did I mention I am a big old two story scaredy cat?
At any rate, I made the call today.
What did it? Two words - bone loss .
Hell, I donít know exactly what that is either. But it sounds horrific enough for to get someone on the horn and schedule me an appointment.
I was talking to a friend of mine in LA today and she was talking about her recent bought with the same problem and the horror she had recently gone through due to some rank infection and bone loss.
Suddenly my mind was filled with images of my face all ganged green and caved in because I was missing my lower jaw then my mind immediately flashed a reconstructive surgery scene of me on an operating table all hooked up to beeping machines surrounded by an army of masked doctors sticking me with 13 inch needles then cutting my leg open in an attempt to shave off bits of femur to replace in my lower jaw.
But oh no. In the chamber of horrors that is my mind, that wasnít good enough.
Oh no, in my mind it turned out Operation Femur was unsuccessful so the masked army of doctors later arm wrassled me and tried to chisel off chalk sized pieces of my funny bone to use as a replacement and turns out that didnít work either so not only did I have this heinous caved in jaw, but I was also left with a pronounced limp and totally humorless.
Let it be known, my hyperactive imagination is sometimes my best motivator.
So, yeah I found some quack in a ritzy little office near my apartment - within walking distance should I be like, all hopped up on nitrous or something and too funky to drive.
A girl can hope!
I go on Monday.
Wish me luck, wonít you?
And now - if you will excuse me Ė I think I will now go out, have a few cocktails and enjoy my last weekend with my two good legs, lower jaw and sense of humor still intact.