Last week, I felt the need to have a man inside my mouth.
It had been a long time, easily 11 years. I’d forgotten what it was like; I can’t say I was too crazy about the sensation, however, and I certainly didn’t care for the taste.
I am, of course, talking about going to see the dentist.
For years, I’ve had a wisdom tooth that has bugged the hell out of me. I knew it was growing in at a weird angle, but I didn’t realize how weird until they took an X-ray — the fucker has been growing in sideways.
No wonder it’s been bugging me.
Pulling out a tooth cheeky enough to grow in sideways takes, as you might expect, a bit of cutting and drilling, which I can inform you is far from pleasant. But the real fun began with the discovery that I am, apparently, a bleeder — once the bleeding begins, it’s content to call it a party and just keep on going. I knew something was up when the dentist called over a colleague and the two of them began a litany of Okashii, na (“That’s strange”) and kept poking around my oral orifice. But I didn’t realize just how much blood my body was venting until I’d swallowed enough of it to bring the stuff back up.
You poor dentists with your poor, Yoda-sized sinks.
I began launching blood all over the place, arcing it clear over the sink and splattering the walls, the floor, my clothes … The place looked like a crime scene by the time I got through with it.
The best part, however, is that the extravagant blood loss caused them to sew me up before the procedure was complete; the root of the wisdom tooth remains, which means that in a couple days’ time, I get to go through this all over again.
If you thought I was a crabby guy before, dear Reader, in the past week of walking around looking like someone’s punched me in the jaw, and with the inside of said jaw bound together by string, I’ve managed, with a single glance, to make two people physically jump out of my path when they attempted to cross it.
The one positive note in all this: The cost of the anesthetics, followed by a trio of dentists cutting me, drilling me, sewing me back up and rubbing me gingerly on the back as I’m pulling my version of The Exorcist and dousing the place with blood, plus prescription meds dispensed on the spot, came to just over US $20.
Lord knows how these people are making money.
p/s – The title of this blog post is a reference to a Cure song. It’s pretty catchy.
p/p/s – On my way back from the store just now, I saw a duo of well-dressed gentlemen holding a stretcher atop which lay what was clearly a corpse covered in a blanket … and they were carrying it into a house.
This place is weird.
Filed under: Living Here