Driving to the dentist on a rainy New England day. Slit your wrists now. I had a tooth extracted yesterday. Cracked it on some gravel in an old mine, last spring. Now painfully cavity ridden, I am driving (Read: riding with my mom because I still can't do anything for myself. ugh.) to Bangor, Maine to have it pulled out. I'm so white trash. The "Big City" reminds me of Montrose. Post zombie invasion. All strip-mall-ed and empty parking lots. Piles of construction debris and dilapidated houses. The actual down town scene is quaint, but hardly redeeming.
The dental assistant has me sign a form agreeing to having tooth #2 pulled from my head. I have no idea if that is the actual tooth that is broken. But I sign and hope that the dentist is smart enough to differentiate the cracked one with the big cavity from all its other innocent bystanders. Two shots of novocaine and the dentist leaves me alone with my after care instructions while he lets the numbing agent do its thing. I lay in the plastic padded seat staring at obtrusive objects in the room. Mildly distressed by the page long list of possible risks associated with extraction (including but not limited to: facial deformation, numbness or complete loss of sensation, & paralysis -all listed as temporary to potentially permanent). And also concerned by the dental assistant's worrisome look when she took my blood pressure. Twice. Apparently 81/52 isn't quite the norm up here in Maine. Though that's low even for me (usually 90's over 60's) I try to put it out of my head and chalk it up to the high altitude living and the fact that although I feel like I have been hibernating the last two months, my BMI is actually much lower than a lot of these whoopie pie loving Mainers.
So I try to put the negative thoughts aside. And focus on sending the dentist positive energy. And reminding my self to breath and remain calm. Take in the surroundings. But there's not much to look at when you're having a tooth extracted. One minute it's chin back - open wide - rubber & latex - the glint of medal. Then wrists - elbows - dirty drop ceilings and four minutes later (six minutes if the dentist pauses to answer a phone call. true story) the dentist's face starring down at you announcing it's all over - bite down on this gauze - good luck with your leg.
Hands down the most intensely violent experience of my life. Everyone always tells horror stories about the gynecologist. On your back. Legs spread. Insertion. Isn't that what the vagina was designed for? That's a Saturday night for some of you. But seriously, while we're all worried about our privates being violated we don't pay as much mind to scenarios where we find ourselves pined down, mouth agape, practically choking on the metal objects probing our universal orifice. At least I didn't until I found myself walking (Read: crutching carefully & slowly) to meet my mom in the waiting room, feeling vulnerable and violated. Nothing could have prepared me for that experience. There was just pressure and pulling and wriggling and yanking and then blood. I tried really hard to stay calm. But the best I could do was clench my eyes shut and repeat to myself "Veneta. Veneta. Veneta." Desperately trying to channel one of the calmest most soothing souls I know. Weird. Agreed. But it made me laugh. And then I pictured telling her this story and it made me laugh even more. And then it was all over. And we went to buy brownie mix (Ghirardelli double chocolate. Is there any other kind?!?) at the Hannaford's in the strip mall down the street. Across the pot holed paring lot "Dream Dress Bridal" stood between "Maine Smoke Shop" and "Laundry & Cleaners". I thought of zombie brides and i day dreamed about the near future, when I'll be able to say "I walked into Target". Walked being the operative word. It's almost over.
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