Two weeks ago, I had a temporary crown crammed into my mouf. Yesterday, it was my second major surgical procedure in fourteen days, as my permanent crown was ready – which is more than I can say for me.
Y'see, I'd been having increasingly irritating mouth pain since the fitting of the temporary. The words "root canal" had been hinted at by my dentist if the pain persisted and we didn't get off to a good start when the dental assistant and I engaged in the following exchange:
Dental Asst: "The crown looks loose. You won't need Novocain. It should pop right off."
Dental Assistant twists(!) the temporary crown.
Dental Asst: "I guess I was wrong."
At this point, the temporary crown was halfway in and halfway out. I couldn't close my mouth, as Isaac Yankem went off to find a real dentist.
After three(!) injections of anesthetic – yes, three – the temporary crown comes off. Later, the dentist starts applying pressure to the top of my head and the bottom of my jaw as I "bite down" on the permanent crown.
In her words (keep in mind she's Indian – Dr. Namoo Dutta) "You have a big head." Imagine that in stereotypical Apu voice. Hey, thanks, Doc.
After I'm told the permanent crown is secure, another assistant is showing me "how easy it will be to floss around it". Now, I'm pretty sure I learned how to floss the same day I learned how to count to five, but what could possibly go wrong?
So, of course, while she's flossing me, the crown pops right off. And, in my prone position, the only place the crown can go is down my throat. "Don't swallow", she tells me, as the dental assistant goes fishing for the faux tooth top that's now around my esophagus.
I dare say – without a hint of hyperbole – that this is the most pain and suffering over anything relating to a crown since this seminal cinematic scene:
Even my son got in on the
And, that's why I now hate the dentist.