This week was exhausting. Mother of God.
I reached a point at approximately 10:45am on Thursday, when my brain went PING. And frankly, I just didn’t care anymore. Stressed at work. Stressed at home. Kids are sick.
And now I have a freaking toothache.
Not surprising. If nothing else, at least my week has held consistency. If you’re going to do something, do it right.
But look, I hate the dentist. Hate. It. There are few things I’d rather do less than go to the dentist. I’d rather fall down a flight of stairs. I’d rather be in labor. I’d rather go to the gynecologist.
As most things do, my hatred of the dentist stems back to my childhood and my dentist. We’ll call her “Doctor M.” Because “Doctor M.” was her name. Anyway, my two front teeth were loose. I was not the child who enjoyed wiggling and playing with loose teeth; quite the opposite in fact. I’d let that sucker hang around in my mouth until it just gave up and fell out on its own. No pain. No blood. I remember the day my last baby tooth fell out: I was in sixth grade. My dad was driving me to band practice in his amazing Geo Metro (dubbed “The Silver Bullet”) and I bit into a sour cream and onion potato chip. My tooth fell out. And there was much rejoicing.
Anyway, back to “Doctor M.” Well, Doctor M. apparently wasn’t a fan of letting loose teeth fester and fall out on their own. And, friends, I’m from a time before the internet. Cell phones. And apparently parental consent forms, because the next thing she said was, “Hang on, this is going to hurt a little.”
And she pulled my teeth.
I don’t remember what happened next. I, in fact, don’t even remember leaving the dentist office. My mother assures me that what she heard from the waiting room was a blood curdling scream that led her to believe a limb had been amputated.
Needless to say, we never went back to “Doctor M.”
My estimation of dentists did not improve in high school. I can remember sitting in the waiting room of “Doctor Dan’s” office while my parents were both getting their teeth cleaned and thinking, “I could just run. Right now. I could be out the door and down the street and save myself the trauma.”
I had no problems with “Doctor Dan.” He was fine and, in fact, said I had million dollar teeth. Thank you. But his hygenist was out of her mind. She dug into teeth and gums like she was digging for gold. Even The Hubs said that he almost told her to stop the cleaning at one point because she was so rough.
Not only was she rough, but she was mean. When I was around seventeen, she told me that if I didn’t start flossing better, I was going to die.
I said, “Really.”
Apparently she had been anticipating a more enthusiastic response. She said, “Well…if you don’t floss, your teeth are going to rot and they’ll all fall out and you’ll have to get dentures.”
“Fine.” I said. “It’s going to be a heck of a lot easier to floss my teeth when I’m holding them in my lap.”
She wasn’t amused.
I like my current dentist, but there’s just never any time to go to the dentist these days. There isn’t time to do anything these days! So…I flossed tonight. Kind of adopting the “lets wait and see” course of treatment and hoping it was just a popcorn kernel stuck between some molars. Because I had popcorn…uh…sometime recently? Maybe?
There’s no way this is going to end well.