After the dentist (I'll fondly refer to him as Orin Scrivello from now on) shot me up with anesthetic, I closed my eyes and tried to slow my breathing and stop digging my nails into my hands. Orin came back a few minutes later and started poking around my tooth. It hurt. More shots. More waiting. Then morbid curiosity got the better of me and I turned around to glance at the tray of implements.
Oh my gosh! Is that a CHISEL I see?! What kind of medieval torture goes on in this place? Oh, I should've been knocked out for this.
When Orin returned, I asked, "Do you have a paper bag I can breathe into? I think my heart's going to explode."
Orin laughed his maniacal laugh. Apparently he thought I was joking.
He commenced Operation Torture wherein he attempted to relieve me of my tooth. After much pulling and digging around, my crown popped off. The rest of the tooth remained. He continued to pull to no avail. After half an hour of this, he got up, mopped his face which was drenched in sweat and informed me he'd have to break the tooth apart and remove it in pieces.
"Shoot me. Shoot me now."
I think he left the room to call his wife and tell her that he'd be skipping the gym after work since he'd already gotten his upper-body workout. I took this moment to run to the bathroom. That wasn't one of my better plans. I glanced into the mirror as I washed my hands. Despite the metallic tang of blood that filled my mouth, I wasn't prepared to see the blood on my bib and smeared across my face. I thought about making a dash for the front door, but the waiting room was filled with kids. I was afraid that watching a frantic lady in a blood spattered bib with wild hair and crazy eyes run out the door might scar them for life.
Orin and I returned for round two.
He drilled what was left of my tooth in half and started tugging again. He yanked and used my jaw as leverage as he tried to pop out the pieces of tooth. He braced his foot on my chest, grabbed the tooth-yanker-thingy with both hands, and leaned back, using all his weight to pull. If he'd lost his grip at this point, he would've flown back a good 10 yards.
Eventually he removed all the pieces, effectively reducing me to a toothless, redneck, hillbilly, toothless, dork with no teeth. I'd like to say that I will never, ever, ever set foot in a dentist's office again, but since I have a problem with looking like a hillbilly, I guess I'll be going back at some point for a bridge.
And here I'll leave you with a video of my dentist. Yes, I know it looks like Steve Martin. But it's my dentist, I assure you.
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