The Butcher on 5th Street Incident: Moderate Medical Procedure be Damned

Its rare that the terror I can build up in my head exceeds my imaginations expectations.  Rare, but not impossible as I discovered last Thursday.

As a child of a family friend had his wisdom teeth removed, and choked on his blood while on the pain medication and died.  You read that correctly, died.  My mother mentioned it on many a dental visit and the memory was ingrained on my brain = wisdom teeth removal means certain and inevitable death.  For the past decade I have successfully thwarted every dental professional attempts to get them out. Then one of them popped out of my gums a month ago and with it came pressure induced headaches and restless sleep.  

After one hideous headache I called my Mom to complain, and I confessed that I was afraid to get them out because of her friend's son.  At which point I was updated that the son had in fact committed suicide with the pain killers-not choked to death.  It was decided at the time that suicide was too dark a tale for a 6 year old.  Darker than choking to death on your own blood?!!

Cranky, sleep deprived, and with the source of my fear proven unfounded I admitted defeat and scheduled the appointment for Thursday morning after being assured by my dentist I would be out of there in an hour and at the bar for happy hour by that night.

Liar.

My Dentist in Austin is one of the flush fancy chain Dental offices with a cutsey name and televisions at every torture station to watch daytime soaps while getting your cleaning.  While I was prepped for my procedure I glanced at the television.  Do you know what was on?  I shit you not one of those horrible ASPCA informercials featuring an an emaciated Momma mutt that had been abused and thrown in front of a car but still managed to drag her babies to safety.  WTF.  

When my handsome dentist sauntered in I informed him that the station selection completed my Torture Chamber impression.  He tried to change it, but it was too late, the tone had been set.

For the next ten minutes, I was poked, prodded, and filled with a numbing agent that had a side affect of making my heart race.  In case I wasn't nervous enough my entire body was literally shaking, whether from fear or from the side affect is unclear.  And then Dr Beefcake tells me my back tooth, affectionately called "little 17" was going to be a challenge.

Challenge?  What do you mean a challenge?

The next hour was Hell.  Minute by minute ticked by with cracks and and alarming amount of muscle use by Dr. Beefcake.  To his credit he tried to calm me down as though I was a frightened Labrador Retriever, there was a lot of "Now, thats a good girl!  It'll be okay!"   He spent something like 25 minutes on "little 17" before announcing, "We'll come back to that one!"  I hated his chipperness and I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being addressed the same way as the near death mutt on the informercial an hour before.  

After another half hour or so of extraction, Beefcake announced that he couldn't get "little 17" out.

I stared at him confused.  I mean for the love of God what had he been doing in there?  

"Well, you don't expect me to just leave with half a tooth, what happens when I can feel again?"

"No, it has to come out.  We are just going to walk you around the corner to an oral surgeon."

Wait, I was leaving?  Where were they taking me!!??  The farm?  

I sat in my little cell while Beefcake and his staff conferred. At which point I was informed, like a 5 year old, that the nice receptionist David was going to drive me across town and that they had contacted my "in case of emergency".

I couldn't help but imagine my sister's eye roll when she got that message.  Typical Jenna.

David ushered me into his la petite hoopty mobile and he reminded me that we had met socially one night at happy hour.

I was torn between my desire to be charming and likable and that fact that I couldn't feel my face and I was borderline hysterical.  Once we got to the building David dropped me off at the curb with, "Just go in and go to the 5th floor.  I'm sure its easy to find."

WTF.

I stumbled up to the 5th floor like a war refuge.  Blood was literally dripping onto my shirt.

The receptionists found my entrance a little shocking and suggested I got to the bathroom to wipe myself off.

I looked like a Zombie fresh from a blood sucking buffet.  How could my buddy David let me go out in public like this?  Dr Beefcake?  Was there no end to this Hell?!

At this point I was doubting the Dream Team's skill and sense of decency, feared ever being pretty again, and skipped down the road to full blown hysteria.  

The oral surgeon was a kindly older man who inspected my mouth, promised he could get the rest of the tooth out, and offered me a local anethestic.  

At which point I begged to be put under.  Begged.

The OS patted me on the head and sent me back into the waiting area.  Where I sat until my sister kicked in the door, intent on rescuing me.  

She and I chatted a bit, and then the numbing agents wore off.  

The pain was unreal.  I curled into the fetal position and sobbed, terrifying the other patients.

Amanda let this go on for a few minutes before she went and raised Hell with the receptionist's, who, by all accounts, were immune to my heaving dramatic sobs and only were only incited to any sort of action when she threw my credit card at them.

When the mask finally went over my head I made peace with the end.  At least it would finally be over.