In light of that age-old fact, the socially challenged chick who is writing this blog has made the decision to tell you a story that is equally as gross as it is embarrassing, which will undoubtedly be awkward all the way around.
You can't say I didn't warn you.
The first thing you should know about me is that I have a deep and abiding love for a carbonated beverage called Dr Pepper. You have heard it said that humans are 70% water? I, my friends, am most certainly 70% Dr Pepper. It is my life blood, the nectar of the gods, the elixir of life, and quite possibly the fountain of youth (I'm still researching that one). This
The second thing you should know about me is that I am, without a doubt, the pickiest person on the planet. Not only do I eat only one vegetable (potatoes -- does that even count?), but I also like to eat the strangest combinations of food you ever imagined (ask me about cottage cheese and pepperoni). My diet, which has been referred to as "jet fuel" on more than one occasion, generally includes an inconceivable amount of dairy products, a whole lot of meat, and my favorite food group: junk food.
Before you say it, I know, I know. This is a terrible diet, and I shouldn't eat that way, and strictly speaking I shouldn't be alive, and don't I know that all of that is going to catch up with me some day and I am going to get really fat and block several arteries and die? Yes. I am aware of all of those things and more. But for now, I am simply too lazy to make a lifestyle change that might involve, even in the slightest way, putting anything in my mouth that is green.
The third thing you should know about me can be inferred from the first two: My teeth are doomed.
Teeth are strong little things. They are bones, after all. But a tooth can only stand up so long to an onslaught of sugar, high fructose corn syrup, and peanut butter. Throw in three or four cans of Dr Pepper, and you've got yourself acid in addition to sugar! *Note the false enthusiasm implied with that exclamation point.
Basically, I have cavities.
Don't look at me like that. I know exactly what you're thinking. Why are cavities such a big deal? If you have a cavity, you get your lazy butt in your car, drive over to the dentist, point plaintively at your mouth, and let him take care of the problem for you! Yey for dentistry! It's like magic in your mouth!
That would all be great, except for this one teensy-weensy little wrinkle: dental insurance. Or rather, the fact that I don't have it.
You see, as a 22-year-old young woman, I am in that very odd place I like to call Responsible Adult Limbo. It's somewhere between College and Career, and sometimes it seems like I'll never get out! When I was a younger girl, I complained about the dentist, and whined about the dentist, and wished that the dentist would move to Florida so I wouldn't have to go anymore (because our dentist was obviously the only dentist). Now that I am older and wiser (and cavity-er), I have a different view of things.
There were not many great things about being in school, but one of those rare things was the ability to mooch off my father's health and dental insurance. When I got out of school and into a full-time job, that insurance was stripped away from me as quickly as my income, which was/is being poured back into the Exorbitant Money-Sucking Loans I took out to pay for school. I thought it would be great -- I now had a built-in excuse not to go to the dentist!
Cue the cavities.
In order to explain to you my quick 180 on the whole dentist issue, I need to invent a new way to explain the word, "Ouch." Let me try to explain it this way: I once saw a Japanese cartoon in which a boy got a cavity, which was unsurprising as his diet consisted almost entirely of cake. In order to depict the pain this poor boy was feeling, the camera zoomed in on his tooth to show microscopic gremlins hacking away at his tooth with pitchforks and pickaxes, cackling evilly as they worked.
Imagine that, times sixteen, and you will understand why I suddenly ached (oh so literally!) for dental insurance.
I will now skip several months of pain and sadness, in which I painstakingly avoided sugary snacks (including chocolate! Why, God, why?!), but continued to drink my Dr Pepper, thereby exacerbating the problem at a slower, but nonetheless steady rate. I will skip those months by using the word 'finally.'
Finally, the cavities got so painful and so obvious (as in, I could feel an actual hole in one of my teeth), that I screwed my courage to the sticking place and decided to go to the dentist like an adult. Screw insurance. But my good ship Le Dentist ran aground on the shores of No Money. Remember those Exorbitant Money-Sucking Loans? I am still paying them. In addition to the EMSLs, I am also paying rent, cable/internet, vet fees for two cats, and other completely necessary but really annoying bank-account-lowering things.
The way I see it, there are two ways to ask your parents for help. 1.) Grovel, beg, and use puppy-dog eyes. This has never worked very well for me, as my mouth is far too large and I look ridiculous when I pout, not to mention I am incredibly proud and do not like to ask for help. 2.) Complain until they notice and do something about it just to shut me up. This method has always proved extremely effective.
I applied method 2 carefully to Mom. Mom has a pretty short chain where complaining is concerned, and I suppose she was also genuinely concerned for me, so she offered to pay for my trips to the dentist. Victory!
I scheduled an appointment. I went to the appointment. I received the verdict: 16 affected teeth.
I will admit that I panicked.
But I soldiered on, determined to prove to all and sundry (okay, mostly myself) that I am no longer afraid of the dentist! Besides, I really want to be able to eat candy again. How I long for a Butterfinger!
That one tooth with the big hole in it was the first thing to tackle. I came to the dentist on a snowy morning (it was a bad omen -- snow is my mortal enemy), stepped out of the car, marched into the dentist office and held back my tears as the hygienist led me back to that well-cushioned chair. I watched the inverted flat-screen above my head with stoic determination, thinking that it might be a good idea to strap me in and wondering if they had any restraints in the Mysterious Closet in the Corner.
The dentist came in, far too cheerful. It was morning, and it was snowing, and neither one of those things seemed to be cheerful to me. Or maybe I was just grouchy because I had a hole in my tooth.
They needled me full of Novacane, which is a genuinely awful/weird experience. Then they started drilling. They drilled and drilled and drilled while I silently wished for those restraints from the Closet. But it was over within a half an hour, and I didn't feel a thing.
"Well, now, you did the right thing by coming in," the dentist told me in a chipper voice, removing the drill from my mouth at last. "A few more days, and that might have been a root canal!"
The words "root canal" are still echoing around my head, making me jump at shadows in the dark hours of the night.
They took a mold of my teeth to make a crown. Here's something I didn't know: crowns are flippin' expensive! I think they are called 'crowns' not because they cap your teeth, but because they might as well be named after a royal accessory if they are going to cost that much.
After they took the mold, the hygienist made a fake tooth of out some kind of unknown metal. She stuck this fake tooth on the remains of my real tooth with temporary glue, and told me to steer clear of anything hard or sticky.
And after all that, here I am, two weeks later, writing a frustrated blog post. Because, after all that trouble, the stupid temporary crown just came out in my peanut butter & jelly sandwich.
I agree that the dentist is usually an unpleasant experience. They always seem to find problems with your teeth that you didn't even know existed. For the longest time, the dentist tried to get me to get braces or a bracket in order to adjust my overbite. But I'm still brace-free! I can also relate to the uncomfortable drilling. I did not get put out when they took my wisdom teeth out, and it's strange to feel a bunch of pressure in your mouth but without the pain. That being said, you forgot to mention the point where you get to choose the toy in the toy box when you leave. Or do you lose that privilege when you have 16 cavities? (My dad consequently asked if that was a new record).
ReplyDeleteAnyway, I really liked your post and I hope you continue writing, if not for anyone else then at least for my entertainment ;-).