My dental drama is finally over. Or at least my insurance is maxed out so that possible root canal will just have to wait.
For those who need a refresher, I went to the dentist after having Hadley (my firstborn) and discovered my Pukefest-for-a-Pregnancy had produced approximately 500 cavities. We started Operation Rotfest Repair but then found out I was pregnant with Bode so we had to hold off.
When I finally went back after Pukefest-for-a-Pregnancy No. 2, my cavities had blossomed into root canals and crowns, a veritable garden of decay in my mouth. This, for the girl who religiously brushes and flosses daily and who never even had a cavity until high school.
I have spent thousands of dollars repairing my teeth and countless hours shuffling between the endodentist and dentist. Tuesday was my final appointment. I have the drill down (pun intended) and have had the same room and dental assistant from the get-go. I was settling into my luxury recliner when a newbie walked in.
“Where is Pat?” I demanded, concerned over the disappearance of my favorite probing assistant.
“She is busy with someone else,” Newbie replied.
An office affair? I never imagined I would be the scorned lover. And so I was left with this, this, this virgin. One who did not understand I like to read my smut hard-news magazines throughout the entire appointment and that my salivary glands are the healthiest on the planet.
Translation: she would have to eternally use the spit-sucker because I have an overabundance of the “nectar of the gods.”
At least that is what the kissing book I gave my college freshman boyfriend called it.
After two hours of spit sucking, drilling and removing my sense of dignity as I was reduced to a drooling invalid, I limped out of there. One of my cavities’ depth loomed close to a nerve so I was forewarned I would have possible complications and a future root canal.
“Possible complications” was an understatement. Seven hours later, my lip was still numb, throbbing and three times its size. My daughter sympathetically observed, “Mommy, you have monster mouth.”
Hubby was more diplomatic. “You look just like Angelina Joie with those lips.”
Yeah, without the sultry pout and slinky legs. Lucky me.
The ailments continued to bedtime. Ever the concerned husband, he gave me some pain killers to knock me out. Only it had the adverse effect.
11 p.m. “Wow, I feel GREATTTTTTTTT!”
1 a.m. “Is this stuff supposed to make me feel like I am on Speeeeeeed?”
3 a.m. “Did you know there are 1,535 dots on the ceiling?”
4 a.m. The medicine finally wore off and I passed out.
6 a.m. Bode woke up. You do the math.
So for for now, I am relieved to say my dental drama is over.
At least until Pukefest-for-a-Pregnancy No. 3.
I'm a Canadian-born mom of two, former Denver Post columnist, family travel writer, editor of MileHighMamas.com and 9News contributor. Expert on all things Utah, Denver, family and travel. Lover of laughter and life. Happily married to a man obsessed with growing The Great Pumpkin. 