“oh the devil she must be a dentist, with deep jaw breaker eyes.
Red rope hair, grumdrop eyes and cotton candy thighs”
-The Presidents of the USA
I don’t like the dentist. I’m not without my reasons.
I managed to acquire enough cavities in two of my teeth to require a cap, both of my front two teeth were bonded when I was pretty young. At 16 I had 4 teeth extracted at once. Except the last fact there my mother always told me it was a defect in my teeth because of how many ear infections I had as a child. And then the coupe de grace, while I was having my wisdom teeth out, I had a negative reaction to the sedative they were using on me and I woke up convulsing strapped to the table with my mother in the room freaking out (they told I needed her but didn’t say why so she had no time to prepare herself to see that). They only removed two of the four teeth they were going to.
So if it sounds like I spent a fair amount of my childhood on the dentists chair, it’s because I did.
So when Amber convinced me to go for a tooth cleaning to say I was nervous was an understatement. I wasn’t looking forward to it for the month I had it scheduled. I wanted that appointment to die. I was convinced the appointment wanted me to die. It sat on my online calendar and real calendar like a beacon of death. January 21st is my Ides of March. “BEWARE THE 21ST OF JANUARY” is what a soothsayer would have told me if I ever employed one.
I survived. Barely. Now my teeth are clean and I’m working my way to getting that dental work done that I needed to six years ago when this whole wisdom tooth thing happened in the first place. Then perhaps I can get my retainer out once and for all.