RIP My Teeth

Yeah, yeah, I know like half of the population has gone through this, so it might not be the most revolutionary tale to tell. But regardless, to me, it was quite an experience.

I had braces for about three years when I was a teenager, and hence developed a certain immunity towards dentist phobia. I have never had a single cavity, so when I checked my teeth at nineteen years old, I pretty much just forgot about ever going again. Then I made the mistake of telling my parents, and although I am almost thirty years old now, they put on their most badass parenting faces and sent me to make an appointment straight away. I knew that my fate had been sealed and that there was no going back. I, and my teeth, were finally going to the dentist.

Things went along more or less as expected, except the fact that dental x-ray apparently has had a remarkable evolution during the last decade; no lead cape, no closing my eyes, just a small machine that made me realize how long it had been. As usual, I had no cavities, but due to my very pathetic amount of mouth space, the overly friendly gentleman, who seemed way too young to have completed his dentistry education, let me know that I needed to remove my ever absent wisdom teeth. All damn four of them. All those years of thinking I was just meant to remain unwise, and there he was, telling me that someone was going to stick their tools into my mouth and pull them out before they had even surfaced. I almost felt bad for the poor bastards. Oh well, what has to be done has to be done.

About a month later I found myself in the hands of a new dentist; a very cool and laidback woman a bit older than myself. Just like most humans, I do not enjoy operations and the pain that comes with it, but I was in fact not that nervous. I consider it the best strategy to not think too much about it until the moment is there, and that is how I deal with most of the uncomfortable things one has to do in life. Like flying. Or presenting myself as a grown-up professional.

So, I’m sitting in the chair putting on a brave face, frankly feeling pretty calm about it. Dentistzilla is giving me local anesthesia that honestly hurts like hell, but it passes and I keep playing it cool. My mouth is starting to feel, – well, pretty much non-existent, which is both fascinating and somewhat disturbing, and I am suddenly feeling strangely aware of my palate. Then the palpitations and the dizziness start, but before I have the chance to complain, I am being told that this is totally normal. Ok, I accept what I am hearing, but I am also starting to suspect that cavewoman-me is not as ok with this as I thought.

I am finally numb enough to get going, and she puts what feels like both of her hands inside my mouth and starts working on tooth number one. That’s when it happens. Nausea hits me like a fist and it feels like when I chunked a whole bottle of Martini Rosso at seventeen. Just without the fun first. They probably see my face getting an until that point unknown whiter shade of pale, and ask me if I am ok. I answer mwmph, and they decide to give me a few minutes to recover.

Time passes (honestly no idea how long), and at some point, they realize that I have no plans what so ever on recovering. Quite the opposite in fact, as they hurry to get the garbage bin just in case I throw up. I do not, however, as my body weighs about three hundred kilos and I would probably have choked on my own vomit before I had managed to get up to aim. Luckily I had not eaten in about seventeen hours (just because I sometimes prioritize sleeping over food).

Then, at last, they decide to ask me ~the question~; Would you like a tranquilizing injection? I have honestly never been so grateful for being offered drugs, so I comply, possibly a tad too enthusiastically. I get the shot and the euphoria begins.

I feel calm. I feel happy. Nausea passes. I start making jokes with an articulation that I can only imagine, and I am suddenly totally fine with having my teeth ripped out of my skull. Why worry? Hakuna Matata!

It is over in a moment, and I mwmph my way to the waiting room and lie down to call my husband, whom I am hoping will come to get me with the car. He is as always my savior, and before I fall asleep I send a Snapchat selfie full of spelling mistakes that would have made me cringe any other day.

We go home and I call my father, who cannot really understand what I am saying over the phone. I am in a good mood though! I spend the rest of the day drooling blood stains on basically all the pillows and cushions we own, giving myself a significant portion of laundry to get done during the following days.

The next day I wake up looking like a nut collecting hamster. It is a huge challenge not to laugh when I look in the mirror, but laughing hurts, so I try not to. On the bright side, surviving on a diet solely consisting of ice cream is not too bad.

Now at least I know what I am up against. And that getting drugged within a safe and controlled environment can be pretty awesome.

Two teeth out, two to go!

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