Getting to the tooth of the matter

I have experienced intense pain twice when I delivered babies and once when the top of a pop-up camper fell on my head. But none of the above prepared me for what happened one perfect day in February a few years back. The weather was warm and balmy, I had found a $20 bill in the dryer and I was having a really good hair day as I sang along with a favorite oldies station, then took a swig from an ice-cold Coke. I felt like the star of a “Life is Good!” commercial.

But as I chug-a-lugged that cold Coke, I noticed a funny feeling in my mouth, just a tingle; within two hours, the tingle had morphed to pain and found a place to focus on — my tooth.

For some people, the first inkling of a tooth problem sends them rushing to their dentists. I am not one of those people. I am slightly dentophobic. Oh, I’m great about scheduling regular appointments but several days before the date, I cancel, making up some story about leaving the country. I always say I’ll reschedule, then before you know it, months pass.

I’ve done that so often that I have to think fast when I run into someone from my dentist’s office who asks, “So, how was that six-month African safari?” or “Did you ever make it to the top of Mt. Fuji?”

On that particular February day when I felt pain in my tooth, I lapsed into dental denial and told myself it was probably sinus or PMS or maybe just a delayed (waaay delayed) growing pain. I was confident that time and prayer would correct the problem. Neither did. Seven hours after that first tingle, I was forced to accept the fact that my problem had nothing to do with post-nasal drip or rampaging hormones and realized that, when you have a toothache, nice weather, good hair, an icy Coke and a $20 windfall don’t add up to squat!

By the next morning, I knew I needed professional help, so I called the dentist’s office. I was asked if I was having an immediate dental emergency and I said no, because right at that moment, I wasn’t. I mean I was only whining in pain, not screaming, and I got an appointment for the following day.

When I burst into the dentist’s office an hour early, if the Publisher’s Clearing House Million Dollar Gift Squad had been outside waving a big cardboard check with my name on it, I would have told them to give the BIG $$$ to the next person on their list because at that moment no one in the entire world was more important to me than my beloved dentist.

From the amount of pain and the speed with which it had intensified, I knew we were dealing with multiple abscessed teeth that were already messing up my brain and didn’t my friend just tell me about a neighbor who let a toothache go and, long story short, had to learn how to talk all over again?

I had even prepared myself to hear the two words we dentophobes never speak out loud: root canal. But he didn’t say that because all I was actually suffering from was a leaky filling or something equally minor that probably would have hardly bothered someone who wasn’t such a big crybaby. My darling dentist was able to take care of the problem in a few moments with minimal discomfort and I loved him so much. As I left the office, I wanted to kiss everyone because, without a toothache, even though the weather had turned cold and sleety, it felt like such a beautiful day. I did have to make an appointment to return to repair a broken tooth I had unsuccessfully tried to hide with my tongue and I promised the entire staff and the other patients in the waiting room that I would not weasel out. And when I said it, I truly meant it.

Fast forward to this February and the waiting room of a dentist in Key West. This is my third visit so I’m very proud of myself for not having lied and cancelled. This is a good sign that I’m finally growing up. Then the receptionist says she wants to schedule one more appointment during the next few weeks, before we head back to Shelter Island.

“No problem,” I say cheerfully, “I just hope it’s not at the same time as my hike across China.”