Right away, I told him how I was traumatized by the last guy, and I never even wrote about the horrid experience I has last time, either. Dr. R asked me if I wanted nitrous and I said yes. The helper (what the heck is that job title?) started to question it (I don't remember why) and he said to her, "She said she wanted it." That's what I'm talking about! Give the girl what she wants!
Breathing in my nose and out my mouth was a distracting meditation and given my hearing problems, I didn't pay much attention to much else.
In through my nose.
I couldn't figure out where my mouth was a couple of times and inhaled deeply, only to discover that I had all this air in me that I didn't know what to do with.
Out through my mouth.
Dr. R asked me if I drank a lot of carbonated soda and was telling me about the dangers of that and Altoids and how when he found them in his wife's car he took them and hid them. I asked why.
Dr R: They're just like eating powdered sugar.
Me: I don't eat Altoids, but I eat powdered sugar all the time.
I think I nearly gave him a heart attack. I was joking, of course, except for the powdered Hostess Donettes that I eat whenever I can get my grubby little hands on them. Or at least before my youngest daughter told me I couldn't have them anymore because they'll make me fat. She's made it her mission in life to protect me from the little powered Donettes.
Anytime Dr. R said anything, I opened my mouth wider. I don't know what he said most of the time, but I figured it was to get me to open wider, so I did.
In through my nose.
Dr. R and his helper could have been welding the doors on a new car for all I knew what was happening in my mouth. And again, where was this place where the exhale goes? Holding my breath until I figure out how to exhale because I've forgotten again.
Out through my mouth.
And then it was done. Dr. R asked me how I was doing and I told him great since he didn't make me cry. Seriously. The last dentist made me cry. I was nearly hysterical in his chair with the looming sensation of drowning on my own spit. Why would he put a drooler like me in a chair with my head below my chest? Dr. R knows what he's doing. That's why I like him so much.
In the chair, inhaling and exhaling, I thought that if I had three wishes from a genie or something, I would wish that my dentist was at least 30-years younger. That way, he wouldn't retire any time soon and I'd have a good dentist for a long time ahead. Better than that, though, I'd wish that I had flossed my teeth daily like I'm doing now, but that I'd have been doing it all along to avoid the ravages of decay.
Dr. R assures me that when I'm in my 80s that my sensitivity will decline. Something to look forward to. That, and the numbness to go away. The water I'm drinking keeps spilling on me.
2 comments:
Am I the only one who finds it odd that your dentist "ditched" you? You did think he was retired, right.
He can run, but he can't hide. I know where he lives.
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