I just returned from two hours at the dentist. Y’see, I broke my crown a few weeks ago. The culprit? Noooo, not hard candy or anything you’d think that would make a tooth self-destruct. But rather, I was eating an omelet at Country Road Cafe. Now, this just wasn’t just any omelet, but a chicken, broccoli and tomato omelet with the most heavenly chipotle cream sauce. I’d almost say it was worth it.
In addition to my crown, I got some bad news today after the dentist reviewed the X-rays. Any guess on how many cavities I have in this big mouth of mine? Not 3, 5, but 7 FRICKIN’ cavities! How is that humanly possibly? I brush AND floss every day. It’s not like I’m Billy Bob from Arkansas who has never been in a dental office!
As I sat there examining my X-rays, I grew suspicious of my new dentist. How do I know that she’s really legit? Maybe she just got a black marker and shaded in allllll those teeth. I love when they explain everything to you like you know what the freak is going on. Even worse is I always nod like I know what the freak is going on.
Though I never even had a cavity before college, I am not a stranger to dental trauma. I still remember when I was on my mission and living in a little Swiss city, Bienne. My comp was Katie Ingersoll, probably one of the nicest and sweetest gals out there (and as one tactful elder once told us–we were polar opposites. What was he trying to say?)
Anyway, I had a tooth that was giving me major problems so we shopped around trying to find a dentist that spoke English (French and German were the city’s main languages). We found one; only problem was, his assistants didn’t speak a lick of it. The gal he assigned to me was a Pollack mercenary, whose only English words were “open” and “close.”
I showed her my bad tooth and before I knew it, she started drilling away on the wrong tooth. Did she try numbing my mouth first? Giving me painkillers? Such would not be befitting of a Pollack mercenary. I had never been in more pain in my life. Sweet Katie was crying out of sympathy through the whole ordeal. Or maybe her ears just hurt from all my screaming.
In rebellion, I finally clamped my mouth shut (yes, smart alecks out there–that is humanly possibly). Through the international language (charades), I told her she was drilling on the wrong tooth and she’d better numb my mouth or else (Canadians have a few mercenary tactics of their own).
She finally gave me some shots and started working on the correct tooth. Only problem is the shot didn’t take effect until the bus ride home. So there I sat in pain as I wondered if the Swiss have a higher pain tolerance than Canucks. I was so flaming mad that my only consolation was to think of all the mean Pollack jokes out there. Until I remembered that I, too was Polish. What a predicament. I hope none of you are ever in it.
So back to the present day. I called my beloved cavity-free husband to get some sympathy after my appointment. We calculated our dental bill out to be hundreds of dollars. I joked, “Well, Merry Christmas to me.” Problem is, he didn’t joke back when he said my present would be a nice bow for my mouth.
Merry Christmas.
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. 