So yay for me, I'm getting my front teeth fixed today, finally, at 2pm. So excited. Fun. Think of how nice I'll look.
There were exclamation points at the end of the last three sentences but I took them out. Because right now, 3 hours to liftoff, all I feel is ook. I am not excited. I am not happy. I am quietly feeling gaaaaaaaaaaaah.
When you go to the dentist, you feel some kinda way, and I don't know what neurotypicals feel. I'm a neurospicy person with a history of dental trauma (when you bash your front teeth on the tarmac as a kid, I'd say that qualifies).
Behind me stretches a long string of dentists who couldn't figure out why I was still in pain when they froze me. How did they fix it? Just gsve me more of the same shots but stuck them in different places. Thanks, Dr Mac Truck Fingers whose boat I paid for (as he loved to remind me). He gave me 9 shots, one time. NINE.
Turns out this aberration runs in our family; my father and his father – a freaking dentist himself, seriously – have our mouth nerves in not-usual places. My current dentist, Dr Magic Mirror, has solved this. He somehow has figured out where to put the needle, how slowly to inject the anesthetic, and how to fool my mouth into not noticing what he's doing by messing about with the back of his little round mirror on my gums near the injection site. It means a near-painless experience in his chair. It's the only reason I'm able to contemplate doing anything more than basic mouth maintenance.
So today, I go in to have an ancient (35+ year old) crown and veneer removed and the prep work done for the final restorations. It means I will once again encounter that rubbery goop in a mold that I bite down on as it hardens. Even that gives me PTSD...because one time, Dr Mac Truck Fingers' assistant mixed the stuff too wet and it – I am not lying here – ran out of the mold and down my throat. Imagine me spitting slowly hardening rubber all over myself, the assistant, the office. Fun times. And the best part was that this was my fault. The piece shaped like the opening to my throat wasn't proof enough? I do not miss that man, his brutish fingers, and crappy chairside manner.
I am a whiner about dentists. I know I am. You don't have to read this, but I need to get it out. Did you know people with ADHD process stuff by talking it over (and over and over) till it makes sense to them?
So say goodbye to this ole misshapen, discoloured smile. I'll return home later today with some decentish temporaries and in a few weeks, will have the final normal-looking mouth I've wanted since forever.