I came back from my NYC business/pleasure trip determined to make all those appointments I have put off thanks to book writing and my wonderful, don't-you-wish-you-could-have-it-too, Lyme disease. Finishing the last book took a lot out of me, but I am doing better now. Until I called the new dentist Monday and they said they could take care of that loose crown Tuesday morning. "Are you sure?" I said after I gulped down a mouthful of my heart. "Because I can wait. Honest." But no. They did not want me to wait. They did not want me to destroy my expensive crown with the even more expensive root canal underneath. And somehow they figured I was a Denta-phobe, maybe just by the sound of my voice. They were getting me in that chair pronto.
Waiting a mere twenty-four hours to visit the dentist is far more excrutiating than waiting two weeks. I can wrap myself in denial for two weeks, but not for a day. So, I arrived at new dentist having slept maybe an hour the previous night. There I was, shaking, chest pains, then having to use my inhaler. Oh, yeah. I'm phobic. I have good reasons but you don't want to know. Then you'd be phobic, too--if you aren't already. When I finally sat in the awful chair--I think they should disguise the chairs because the smells and the familiarity of that chair, well, you know--anyway, they took x-rays right away. Digital. Nice. They put them up on a monitor right in front of me so I could count my root canals, fillings and crowns. Another hit on the inhaler was in order.
Nice Denist arrives and shakes my shaking hand. Why do they shake your hand? Do they want to see if your palms are sweating? Well, mine were, okay? And then he says, "I see you've had considerable work done." NO KIDDING. Why do you think I'm panting in fear like the last person left on the Titantic? He smiles. I don't. So we move along to the loose crown with me telling myself this won't be bad. A little glue and I'll be home. But apparently the crown is no longer loose--maybe because every other minute for the last month I have been applying pressure to said crown hoping it will not need to be removed and put back on. I was ready to leave and then Nice Dentist says, "No problem with the crown so how's about we fix that GIANT cavity?"
I have a cavity? Where's my inhaler? Where's my VALIUM? But this is not what I say aloud. In this tiny little voice that couldn't possiblty belong to me, the fearless brave soul I truly am, I say, "Can I please have nitrous, Dear Dentist? LOTS of nitrous." He happily complies and I happily drift up to nitrous heaven. So what does this have to do with writing?Well, I wrote this blog for one thing, but I really enjoyed this particular nitrous fog. All sorts of great ideas for my new book tip-toed through my mind. It would be a brilliant book. The plot, the characters, the setting, all marvelous, and all right there in front of me.
Until I heard the assistant say, "You're done. We're putting you on oxygen for a few minutes." And all those ideas disappeared like odorless, colorless gas. Damn. I HATE the dentist.