Dr. Brainwash, DDS

“Raise your left hand if you feel a sharp, uncomfortable pain.”

Involuntarily my left arm stiffens.  My hand eager to shoot up, because thanks to Dr. Brainwash here, my mind tells me that, already, I feel a “sharp, uncomfortable pain.”

“I’m going to break a piece of the crown and then pull it off with my pliers.” 

Say what now? I wonder if I’d be overreacting if I accidentally, on purpose elbow Dr. Brainwash in her abdomen, flip over the tray holding all her weapons medical instruments, and take off Jackie Joyner style towards the EXIT leaving in my wake the mouth prop and makeshift bib whose purpose is to keep my sweater free of the blood that is sure to follow the tooth-yanking-plier-episode that Dr. Brainwash so casually describes.

Buzz. Thoughts of planning my departure interrupted by the sound of the dental drill chipping away at my tooth.  The sound is both sharp and uncomfortable.

Now? Should I raise my left hand now? 

“You’re going to feel a little pinch or two?”

Which is it?  A pinch? Or two?  No time for indecisiveness here Doc.  If it’s one pinch I may only need to elbow you once.  If it’s “two” that may call for an elbow and maybe a mush to the face.  What to do, what to do?

“Are you numb yet?”

Umm, I’m not sure.  If I say no I’m in for another pinch…or two.  If I say yes, and I’m not completely sure, I may learn the hard way.

Wide eyes darting from left to right, reluctantly I mumble, “I think so.”

“Ok.  We’re going to separate the tooth from the gum so that it will be easier on your next visit to place the permanent crown.”

Separate?  My mother paid good money for several grape flavored retainers years ago to prevent this very thing.  What type of killer dentist is she?  I gauge the EXIT to be just ten to twelve long paces away.  I have lost weight over the past year so my elbow should be sharp and pointy.  Yeah, she isn’t the only one who uses “sharp” as a method of intimidation and pain.  Ha!  I’ve got her number.

Two hours later.  (Seriously, Dr. Brainwash tortured me for over two hours.)

The ice queen receptionist (aren’t the front desk personnel supposed to be nice and bubbly?) tells me that my insurance coverage absorbs 90% of the procedure cost.  Yay! Finally I get to put my left hand to better use reaching for my debit card.

“Your portion is $426.78.”  Is that a smile I see on the face of the Ice Queen?  Well, isn’t this about a blimp?

In that case let me write a bogus check.  Nah.  I don’t think that would be the best move.

Torture used to be free.  What happened to the good ol’ days?

They, whoever they is, says “beauty is pain,”  but this is overkill.  Visit two aborted.

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