Chronicles in Oral Health

5:06 AM

I like to write about things that suck. I don't know, it just seems funnier that way. And for what it's worth, I tend to veer on the side of melodramatic, so things like taking out the trash and chasing my dog through our neighborhood always seem like these horrible things that rank high on the things-that-suck-meter.


I'm here to tell you, today, that none of those things suck. They don't suck at all actually. That's because sucky things actually only has one category: oral health. 

So, on Sunday, I had a toothache, and naturally I started poppin' Motrins like it was my job. Enter Monday, I cried for a little bit, swished with vodka and used half a bottle of that numbing cough medicine on my jawbone. And cried a little more. And called every dentist in a 50-mile radius. Broke down into real sobs when everyone was booked. How many freaking school children can there be, all of whom need their annual bubblegum flavored check-ups on Monday. This Monday? My Monday?! -- I may have asked that question direct to God. For what it's worth, he ignored that one.

Then came Tuesday. We'll call it Vicodin Tuesday, because that's essentially what it was. I entered into a dreamy haze that brought oral relief, and the kind of nausea that sort of made me wish I was dead. Anyway, I was dilirious in a conversation with my boss and since I tend to end phone calls with "loveyabye" I had valid concerns that I might have said that, but I kind of didn't care, because, you know, Vicodin and nitrous gas. I did, however, definitely say it to the pharmacist, who just rolled with it. To be fair, I'm probably not the first crazy that's stumbled across the pharmacy's path. 

 Actually, now that I'm thinking about it, I'm not even sure if Tuesday happened or even existed. It's a distant dream. 

So, anyway, I had to have a root canal, which is probably the number one scariest thing I've faced in a very long time. In memory, actually. So naturally, I called my Oma approximately 29743795 times. 

She never answered. 

But wouldn't you know it. I think when a woman gives birth to children, some kind of bizarre radar gets ahold of her and suddenly, she can sense pain in any one of her descendants, no matter how many hours away they are. So, it should come as no surprise when three hours later, I'm dreamily watching TV and I hear in my kitchen, "hey-loooo!"

Here's Oma, arriving in all her maternal glory. And she proceeds to get right down to business, standing in my front yard, plucking apples from a tree that I had no idea produced digestible fruit, and she throws down the mother vibes hard with some homemade applesauce. And then she cleans my kitchen. And my refrigerator. She makes my bed and fluffs the pillows. She offers to make coffee a hundred thousand times. And when I say "I'm very sick," she responds accordingly with "awwww." 

So the real climax should be the actual procedure, but quite honestly, I was so wiped out on drugs, it was genuinely no big deal. Which is nice, because it also helped with the part when I had to hand over my debit card and pay for it all. It's really best to not remember that special part. Anyway, I picked up some decent dentist gossip, which who knows, might come in handy someday. Probably not, but I'll hang on to it, just in case. 

Ryan returned home on Wednesday with a kindly offering: Culvers' cheese curds. This is my only solid memory from the day, because it was so stunningly positive, it sparkles in the drug-induced haze. And may I suggest, friends, there is nothing more valuable than a man who recognizes that fast food is the quick way to perk up a sick girl's spirits. Bless his french fry lovin' heart.

All day, bless him, Ryan indulged me with The Incredible Dr. Pol. Have you heard of this show on NatGeo Wild? Google it, and you're welcome. Anyway, I kept falling asleep during the episodes, so I would wake up and restart the entire damn thing, over and over and over and over.....it was two days of this and I didn't really register until this very moment how much that would annoy me if I were the adult in the room, not strung out on antibiotics and Vicodin. 

And so, here's the moral of the story: nothing sucks. Except oral surgery. In fact, I might (might!) be willing to suggest that I'd rather experience child birth than the dental travesty that occurred this week. I mean, don't hold me to it, but maybe

***

In totally unrelated news, Ryan's family is visiting us this weekend and since there's already been adventures in locating a place to eat food without an hour wait and a fully consumed pitcher of margaritas between us, I'd say we're off to a good start!

Cheers to Saturday! Aren't weekends grand?

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