Here's how it went down:
The tooth that formerly occupied the right rear seat in the lower part of my mouth was irritated and Thursday evening it graduated from irritating to painful. I originally attributed the soreness in my jaw to the awkward position my head was in when I fell asleep at work earlier in the day (sitting up, neck bent to the right with head on shoulder). Next day, when the pain increased exponentially, I got the picture of what was going on.
Now, like many people, I forget to go to the dentist and as a result don't have one that I visit regularly. So, when an emergency of this nature rears its head, I have no one to turn to and no idea how quickly I can get an appointment. I was lost, and 1-800-DENTIST found me. They run a tight ship and hooked me up with a dentist in Brooklyn who could see me that afternoon, stat. Even better, they hooked me up with a chain smoking misanthropic Russian dentist.
Ruskie was located in a small store front deal on Nostrand Ave. in Crown Heights. The office was tiny, with a wood panel covered waiting area that was shared with a doctor's office specializing in doling out methadone scrips to panicky junkies. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining: I was in a lot of pain and they took me in with loving arms. The women who worked in that office were sweethearts and the dentist was sorta pleasant once he let down his guard and stopped eying me suspiciously. But, left to my own devices and not having my back to the wall (so to speak), I'ld have chosen somewhere else to go. There might be a lesson here about looks being deceiving and quality healthcare on the mean streets of Brooklyn, but that lesson is lost on me.
Anyhow, once they got me in the chair, they shot my mouth full of Novocain and the assistant proceeded to flutter about, telling me the do's and dont's of post extraction care, between giggles informing me that "you shouldn't have sex" for the next 24 hours (no, she wasn't hot. trust me.). Once Vladimir came back from his smoke break he sent Back-seat Betty out to get his tools and he went over the cost, had me sign liability waivers and glared. Once B-Dog got back with the tools, he put on some gloves and got down to the matter at hand.
Now, a quick question for the more informed: have dental procedures changed that much over the past one to two hundred years? Old boy's tools were a drill, metal pliers and a motherfucking Marathon-Man chisel. I was hoping that the ADA had struck upon some combination of technology and pharmaceuticals that would finesse the tooth out as opposed to the time tested tag team of local anesthetic and brute force. Wishful thinking on my part.
So, the extraction itself went about how you would envision it: drilling, pulling, chiseling. Every time I would react or flinch at what was happening in my mouth, Gulag Gil would look down and ask "Pain or pressure?" Frankly, I kept answering "pain" and kept getting more Novocain - my rationale was to err on the side of extreme caution. I also wasn't aware that part of the process involved a very audible cracking of the tooth in half. When I heard the crack, I nearly leapt out of my seat: it is a shock to have that sound come out of your mouth.
After everything was said and done, the tooth was gone and I was in a race to get my Vicodin prescription filled. I lost the race on account of two unforeseen factors: Grandpa, my car service driver, and Mr. Weiner, my Rite Aid pharmacist.
I got a car from Crown Heights to Astoria fairly quickly and fully expected the BQE to be packed. It was, but after the LIE exit, traffic eased up and smooth sailing was to be assured. But the aged infirmity in the front seat was going 35 miles per hour. I didn't know what to do. I mean, I just came from Crown Heights and am sensitive to that neighborhood's storied history and am a staunch advocate of Car Rule #1 (you don't tell a man how to drive his own car. It isn't done.). But the Novocain was wearing off, pain was creeping in and it was no joke. I politely suggested using the accelerator , but all for naught. By the time we got to Astoria, I was in pain.
My next hurdle was the man known as Weiner. Clearly a firm master of his domain, Weiner let me know that it would be at least an hour until my prescription was filled. And what an hour it was - all I could do was pace and cuss. When I went back, Weiner was actually pretty sympathetic - the guy has had 3 extractions and 2 root canals - and handed over the happy pills.
When it was all over, I spent the next 4 days in a drug induced haze (all legal, Mom!) while the pain subsided. No lessons learned, no friendships lost, I walked away ultimately healthier but one tooth less. Bittersweet indeed.
