I've had a love-hate relationship with the dentist.
Rarely do I have pain.
And yet, every time I visit him, there seems to be up-and-coming pain that must be taken care of.
I'm so thankful that he catches stuff that my floss and toothbrush do not. But dang! This week took me from crown to root canal. But I left today after saying words I never thought I would say: "Thank you for a perfect root canal."
Next time, I might just give him my credit card on the way in, while they strap that beautiful blue bib on me.
Although this might appear as a dentist-bashing blog post, tis not. As much as this family likes to black out teeth for Christmas pictures, I like my real teeth enough to appreciate my dentist. (Very subtle shout-out to Dr. Drange - many thanks!)
This post is about the real torture at the dentist's office. It has nothing to do with drills or novacaine or really cold water sprays. It's quite simple. The worst torture at the dentist's office is the torture of not being able to speak while those around you can. For an extrovert like myself, it's horrific to have the perfect quip, the word they can't think of, the name of that movie...and not be able to say it.
But something new happened today.
The dear folks who were performing root canal surgery on me were discussing the nonsense of early Christmas decorating.
What kind of fools decorate their houses for Christmas this early?!!
Hmmm, said their attentive but mute patient.
I'm sorry, were you all talking to me? Because my mouth is full of gauze, novacaine, and some poky thing that keeps me from responding.