chewing tinfoil seated on a hill of red ants would be more fun.

In some 10 exactly two hours, I’ll be undergoing probably the most dreaded of dental procedures.

The root canal.

It ain’t the treatment that bothers me — though it’s certainly no walk in the park.

It’s the damn dental dam.

If you’ve had the traumatizing displeasure, then I need say no more.

If you haven’t, count you’re fortunate and then educate yourselves on the hideousness you’ve been missing. I won’t describe it because it’d lead promptly to me picking up the phone, scrolling the contact list to Endo, pushing go and leaving a voice message of, and I quote: “No damn way. I’m out. Cancel.”

Take me word for it. Dental dams put nightmare into dentisry that no old-fashioned shots of whiskey and slow grinds of the pedal drill can match.

It’s for this suffocating panic-inducing torture device and this torture device alone that I require Valium.

(Aside: The endodontist offers sedation involving heart monitors and such prior to appointment and with the requirement that patients be driven home; since that’s not an option, it’s the poor man’s version: Valium from the private stash and prayers for safety on the drive back. ;))

So it’s with the rooster’s crow that I’m up and down for the count in the chair … 10 two hours and {tick … tick … tick}

 

 

Advertisement