Root Canal

Today I had a day off work because I had an abscessed tooth. I went to the dentist, showed them how if I tap the tooth next to my upper right incisor, that my body could dance around in the chair as though electrified. At least I will spend no more nights with my head compressed in a vise, my cheek throbbing, my fingers fumbling for anything inside my medicine chest to either kill the pain or quell the swelling or bring on unconsciousness.

The dental hygienists are all ex-strippers. Although their bodies have taken on that more comfortable softness of motherhood, they still assume a kind of flirtatious persona when I take the chair and they pull up beside me. Especially the one that leads me to the x-ray chair and nearly straddles me as she positions the square pieces of cardboard against my gums and aims the camera on the end of the adjustable metal arm. Today two other hygienists had gathered around and they talked about what they would order in for lunch; chicken strips or buffalo wings. One said wings just aren’t the same without the bone in it, and they giggled and flashed smiles at me and the other jibed that she “was such a boner,” and the other said “That’s Suzie for you, always likes a good bone.”

I wonder if blushing shows up on an x-ray?

I love the weight of the heavy apron they place on you to protect your lungs from the x-ray machine. I want to buy one and have it fitted to cover my entire body.

While they drilled and irrigated and rinsed, I stared up at the black shadows of dead flies in the overhead light, and switched from listening to Martha Stewart’s recipies for Fall to listening to classical music: life is best experienced with a soundtrack. It adds a sense of drama to the whine of the drill, and made me feel as though I was in “A Clockwork Orange”.

I’m all patched up but still sore, and a little tired from all the ibuprofen. I had hoped that the dentist would prescribe some Vicodin at the end of my appointment, like he gives suckers out to the children, but no such luck.