I just had the longest dental appointment in the history of dentistry. They could have grafted on a whole mouth into my face in the time this took. Yeesh.

It was supposed to just be a quick filling on one tooth and a replacement filling on another. But hoo boy, it didn’t work out that way. They ended up doing three teeth and on the replacement filling the cavity had sunk apparently almost all the way to the nerve. It was drill-rific!

The worst part is always the shots. They numb you up with the topical and then they sink in the needles. At best it’s just a series of small pinches, but you can feel the needle going in, and you feel the evidence of the syringe against your lips. Especially when they’re doing anything on your lower back teeth, and you can feel that the dentist is working that needle deep into your jaw and you feel easily an inch or two of that needle being pushed into your mouth. Then comes the numbness and everything from there is just a waiting game.

When I’m in the chair, I find myself getting all tense and stiff, like I might suddenly leap into action and run away. I will myself into submission with relaxation games, slowly relaxing my body from my feet to my ankles and so on until I am limp in the chair and the only frustration is how my jaw is getting sore from holding it open so long.

After the first hour, I actually found myself almost drifting off to sleep. Only the worries about how bad it would be to unconsciously close my mouth on the drill kept me from slipping away.

Because when you’re in the chair, it’s just you and your thoughts. I don’t want to mess with the concentration of anyone who has sharp instruments in my mouth.

“Gosh, I wish my nose hairs weren’t so out of control. She was pretty before the mask and medical paraphernalia rendered her generic. I sure wish I had remembered to shave and had thought about the whole nose hair situation. Probably should also have cleaned my tongue better. I hope my breath isn’t bad.”

“I wonder if dentists envy doctors. Doctors get to knock out the whole patient and then they can do whatever they want while surgering without having to worry that the patient is suddenly going to pop his eyes open or swallow unexpectedly or flip out and bolt for the door. By that token, I wonder if doctors envy the guys in the mortuary. Nothing unexpected is coming from those patients.”

“What makes one choose to be a dental hygienist, I wonder? It’s not an easy job. She’s doing practically everything the dentist is doing except drilling, they’re conversing almost entirely in dental code words, and when you come in for a cleaning the hygienist handles it entirely by herself. But I’ll bet people are much less impressed in bars hearing that you are a hygienist rather than a dentist, which is practically a doctor. It seems like a lot of work and a lot of training for such a diminished prize. Do people feel a calling to help out with mouths? Or does it pay really well and is strictly a pragmatic decision?”

“I’m definitely a closed-eyes kind of guy. Don’t mind me. Pretend I’m not even here. Just a generic mouth in front of you. Just another day of mouth work.” I wondered how many people keep their eyes open. I can’t imagine it’s many. I would have liked to ask, but there were about thirty tubes and drills in my face at the time and there was no room for words to get out.

Again, I don’t know if I’m alone in this or not, but I try to be helpful to the dentist by subtly shifting my head in the direction I think he’ll want to access next. Unlike the barber, who is never shy about shoving your head exactly where he wants it to be, I had the feeling that the dentist was conscious already of my discomfort and was willing to work with whatever I presented. So I, ever the noble martyr, would try to anticipate his next attack when he’d take his arms out of my mouth to change drills, and I would shift my head or open my aching jaw a little bit wider for his easier access.

Now, at the end of it, half my face and tongue is still numb. I know you probably cannot do anything but wait for it to pass. However, I still cling to the belief that vigorously working my tongue around in my mouth, prodding my cheeks, and massaging my gums will somehow work the numbing poison out quicker.

Man, I am so late for work.