Twenty-four hours ago I would not have foreseen a day spent between the dentist and a root canal specialist. Or copious amounts of drool.
There was this molar, see? And it hurt for awhile. Nothing huge, just a twinge here and there. Then yesterday, faster than you can say “Who put the freakin’ midgets in my mouth and why are they stabbing me?” the twinge turned into full-on, raw nerve, shooting pain.
Today, after an emergency visit to the dentist, I was told I had a “catastrophic injury” and chances were one of two things would happen.
A) Root canal
B) Tooth extraction
So, I did the normal thing. Met Bobo for a “farewell tooth” bowl of soup at a local restaurant, commiserated about the outlandish cost of dental care, and prepared myself for an unexpected hillbilly makeover. And after paying for lunch with a wad of ones that REEKED like the lining of an old lady’s purse … or maybe a stripper’s g-string … (True story. The bills had been stinking up my wallet since I received them as change for MP’s Happy Meal earlier in the week.) I headed to the root canal specialist, Deliverance banjos and all.
Hours later? A partial extraction, but no root canal. Next up? Gum surgery and a crown. But I get to keep the tooth, and I’m happier than even those aforementioned stripper bills.
In the meantime, Grammypie’s trying to get me to take the Oxy left over from one of HER dental surgeries. She thinks it’s just like really awesome Advil.
Okay, Rush.
