Notes On A Root Canal

I realize the continuing saga of my root canal is not nearly as exciting as O.J. in the Bronco, Balloon Boy, or efforts to cap an ocean-floor-bound gushing oil well with a 100 ton concrete hat, but after the thirty minutes of howling pain I endured today, you'll just have to indulge me. The actual procedure, as I claimed yesterday, was not bad at all. I just sat there with my eyes closed, in my mind walking in the park mumbling Hail Mary, while the doctor and his assistant did their work. Not quite a literal walk in the park, but not hell, either. Afterward, I even thanked the doctor for a rather pleasant root canal, a half-heartfelt attempt to be the first person ever to append that adjective to the procedure. He kind of chuckled and warned me to wait until the anesthesia wore off, then rushed away rather quickly, I thought. Well, doc ain't no dummy, because just about the time I was pressing the down button on the elevator outside his office, the pain started to rise. And rise. My short drive home was a mad rush to get to two Advil capsules. Once I inhaled them I was a pacin' and cussin' fool, rooting those liqui-gel capsules home like a railbird with next month's paycheck riding on a win bet for a nag named Ibuprofen. Turned out to be a race for trotting, not galloping, but within a half hour Toothache was broken and corralled and I was soon sleeping like a newborn foal on a bed of hay.

The experience got me thinking a bit, between prayers, though. I'm sure I've written before about my lifetime debate about whether blindness or deafness would be worse. I've always said that while blindness would be a horrible incovenience, a world without music and conversation would be insanity, and though my track record doesn't always show it, I much prefer inconvenience to insanity. But my belief was weakened a bit in the dental chair today. Although I mostly kept my eyes shut, out of an admittedly infantile notion that what can't be seen doesn't exist, at times I did peek, and although doc and assistant shuffled all kinds of gnarly looking instruments back and forth between each other and my mouth, the sight of none of them really gave me the heebie jeebies. But, open eyed or shut, the sound of those things was terrifying. Obviously, anyone who's seen a scary film knows the horrific heft music can bring to the fright, but really, the sound of those drills and God knows what else, so close to the ears, was unnerving to the nth degree. I wonder if giving the patient some earplugs or headphones with Black Sabbath blaring might not help ease the tension some. I mean, after all, you don't really need to hear anything. You can't talk with everything in your mouth, so conversation's out, and if the dentist is worried if you're doing okay, well, I think flinging yourself out of the chair, raising your arms to strangle him or her or yourself, or simply howling past all the hardware in your mouth would get the job done. So, in certain circumstances, I concede, deafness over blindness.

Irrigate. That one word, repeated about twenty times, accounted for most of the talk during my root canal. The dentist would say, "irrigate," and then from my left the assistant would shove a tube in my mouth for a second or two. What a weird and beautiful word. Where does it come from? I'm going to start using it in all sorts of instances. When I'm sitting at the bar and in need of another beer, I'll just look at the bartender, point to my empty, and say, "irrigate." Walking off the eighteenth hole, I'll turn to my golfing companions, as they're digging in their pants for the money they owe me, and say, "Boys, how about a little irrigation," and point to the nineteenth hole. When I'm at some picnic and somebody with a water balloon sneaks up behind the person I'm speaking to, I'll just nod slightly and say, "irrigate." When I'm sitting around all sweaty and grimy after some physical exertion, I'll simply make a nominal gesture of sniffing my armpits and announce to anyone present, "Time for some irrigation, don't you think?"

That's it. With Advil happily ensconced in my blood system, I believe the root canal saga is over, with a blissful whimper, and not a horrible bang: I'm still ambivalent about being either deaf or blind, and I now cherish the word irrigate. Oh, and I will floss more regularly.

Public Notice: All Promises Made During Agony Are Hereby Null And Void

The older you get the crazier your expectations. Not outlandish or grandiose, just damn crazier and crazier. Example one and only: I'm looking forward to my root canal tomorrow. I could say I've experienced a couple root canals in my time and that they don't really live up to all the negative hype, but then, what would such a statement do to my sociability quotient? Oh, there's a guy I want to hang out with--a guy's who's well-versed in root canals (from the receiving, not the profitable performing end) and who practically pooh-poohs them (is A.A. Milne responsible for the phrase pooh-pooh [one hopes] or is there a more basic, less literary origin?).

Anyway, I had a horrible weekend suffering through Toothache (certainly deserving of capital status; admittedly, and fortunately, my life has been a relatively healthy one, but is there anything more persuasively paralyzing [in the rather normal range of potential body aches] than Toothache?). In addition to the pain, facial disfigurement, and limits to my diet (God forbid; I had to pass on the season's first outdoor-grilled [I just typed drilled instead of grilled--see where my mind's at?] cheeseburger and was pretty much reduced to gumming and inhaling a hot dog, which was still pretty darn good) Toothace imposed, it also affected my sleeping routine (and as one whose sleep is sacrosanct, you can imagine the further psychic damage inflicted; if one could sue one's own mouth, I'd be seeking eight figures, minimum). Put it all together and for hours on what should have been a relaxing, mom-celebrating beautiful weekend (well, outrageous storms and unseasonably cold temps notwithstanding), I was a writhing mess on alternately cold and sweaty sheets, begging for mercy (a necessary shout out to the good folks at Advil, without whose aid I might have still lived to tell this tale, but, per straitjacket and muzzle, might not have been actually able to tell it).

But now (and when, I ask myself, has a Monday ever been so good to me?) there are antibiotics coursing through my veins, the pain is virtually gone, the swelling much abated (one advantage to a chubby face: swelling isn't so obvious; though yesterday, well-rounded countenance or no, I looked like a bad fighter, so bad he had to take the punishment rather than be offered the chance to throw the fight via phantom punches). However, there is still some business to attend to (not counting enduring a root canal tomorrow) rather than blissfully basking in my non-painness. I don't know what kind of laughing gas my good friend Bob Dylan was on when he sang, "Pain sure brings out the best in people, now doesn't iiiiiiiiiiittt?" but for me, the pain of Toothache brought out some rather desperate attempts at deal-making, whined out to God or whatever other powers were listening with any kind of an interested ear. And now, while I have certainly spent some time today thanking the Good Lord for seeing me through my agony of the gums, I must, with a saner state of mind, address the promises I made in exchange for sleep and the relief of torment during my dark couple of days and nights of the molar.

Certainly some of these promises have some merit, and I will definitely consider "seeing what I can do about them" in the future; but the others, well, any sentient soul will recognize they were the mere and unfortunate ravings of a temporarily unhinged mind and as such, oblige the promiser nonewhatsoever (the legal Latin equivalent temporarily escapes me) in the future fulfillment of them. Ergo, I now decree null and void the following promises: I will shovel every driveway in Cleveland Heights next winter, everyday, snow or no snow; I will read the literary oeuvre of Jackie Collins and use tirelessly my humble blog to trumpet her canonical status and plead for her admission into the Nobel club; I will spend a year not only rooting passionately for the Pittsburgh Steelers, but daily wearing their garb; I will learn the game of cricket and enforce its pleasures on the neighborhood kids; I will look into Mormonism (it was like 4 a.m. and a fresh surge of pain gave me the momentary notion that only somebody named Joe Smith could save me); I will organize a local Tea Party to take place on Coventry Road in Cleveland Heights, July 4th (as somebody unmentioned once claimed, "The only thing worse than a Wisconsin liberal is a Cleveland Heights liberal"); I will reconsider the merits of Men Without Hats; I will uncomplainingly become one of those people who say, "And so I said to myself, 'Self...'"; I will go by the nickname Wildflower for the rest of my life; I will shop daily at Marc's discount store for exactly one item and then allow anyone who so desires to cut in front of me in the check-out line, for as long as it takes; I will only blog about my interest in numismatics; I will floss hourly from now until the hour of my death, amen (well, that one might warrant some second thoughts).

Warren Zevon-Ain't That Pretty At All