My Crowning Glory
Today I got a temporary crown. My permanent crown, which I will receive in about two weeks, will be real gold. But it will be covered in porcelain so that I do not stand out too much. Now that I think of it, I would not stand out very much in my neighborhood with gold teeth. If I did, it would only be because I did not have my street name spelled out in the gold.
I have good teeth. I have always been proud of the fact that I am the one with the whitest teeth in any group photo. Imagine my indignation when my kind but honest hygienist apologetically told me that I had a fractured tooth. What? How did that happen? It’s not like I play football!
It’s just age, she informed me. Your tooth is worn out. And the huge filling in it does not help. Age? I don’t remember anyone on that hit TV show “Thirtysomething” having worn-out teeth. She kept saying she was sorry, but I would need a crown. No problem, I thought. They’ll put a little cover on top of my tooth so that it does not fall apart. Anyway, a crown sounds pretty.
But nooooooooo. First the hygienist will make an impression of my teeth. My son recently had impressions made at the orthodontist’s office. He vomitted. Why do I suddenly feel eight years old?
Then the dentist has to file the tooth down to a “stump” (the hygienist actually used this word). Then they have a clone of my original tooth produced in a lab. The imposter tooth will be fitted onto the stump. Although it all sounded ugly, I trust my hygienist so I made the crowning appointment. Then a frightening thing happened.
My husband lost a chunk of his tooth. I may have white teeth, but John has iron teeth. I think he has had two cavities in his whole life. (And he is even older than I am.) He called the dentist--and was told he needed a crown. To add insult to injury, he would have to have this emergency coronation on Easter Sunday before church.
It turned out that John’s dentist gave him a bigger filling instead of a crown, but my sweet husband urged me to move my appointment up. He did not want me to chew chunky Trident like he did. I got on the horn first thing Monday morning. They got me right in.
Thank God, the impressions weren’t so bad. It was like biting down on soft wax. Then came the needle. Why do they make them so big and metallic? I wished I was eight and at my children’s pediatric dentist: “I’m going to put some strawberry jelly in your cheek honey, and then you will feel a little pinch.”
Don’t get me wrong. My dentist is wonderful--I don’t think it is a coincidence that she is a mom who does dental work part time so that she can spend time with her children. Dr. S. called out the essential advice, “Breathe through your nose!” Right! Like when I gave birth. Do the breathing. In, out, count. (That breathing has gotten me through many more medical procedures than just childbirth. Good value.)
I am a special patient. If there is something that only happens to 1% of people, it happens to me. My cheek did not tingle, like it was supposed to. It felt warm instead. Naturally, I stumped the dental staff. Dr. S., God bless her, waited. She gave me a few more shots of the good stuff. Then she waited some more. She refused to start on the stump until I told her that I tingled. I told you she was wonderful. She said she would start slowly and I should holler if I felt anything. (Actually she said I should put up one finger.)
Since I couldn’t bite a bullet, I squeezed my hands. I would have squeezed the arms of the dental chair, but I could not find them and I did not want to squeeze Dr. S. by accident. Next thing I knew two hygienists were coming at me, each holding open a giant plastic mitten. I’m not kidding. They were being very nice, but I really thought they were going to tie me down.
“Hot paraffin treatment,” smiled Dr. S., “because your hands were so tense.” I was baffled for a moment. How could I squeeze with these giant mittens on? Suddenly my hands were surrounded by the warmth of the hot wax. It was soft. I actually did not want to squeeze my hands anymore. Who would have guessed that going to the dentist would be like goining to a spa? They even gave me a hot moist towel afterwards.
When I got home, I sounded like an angry cleft pallet patient. I couldn’t open my mouth very much. The whole side of my face (including my ear!) was numb. My tongue would not listen to me. My words came out nasal and clenched.
My own children began to make fun of me! They mimicked the slurred way that I was speaking. We all laughed. I think it was healthy. Then my son said that he was imitating me because he felt bad that I was the only one who had to talk “funny.” I believed him.
I have good teeth. I have always been proud of the fact that I am the one with the whitest teeth in any group photo. Imagine my indignation when my kind but honest hygienist apologetically told me that I had a fractured tooth. What? How did that happen? It’s not like I play football!
It’s just age, she informed me. Your tooth is worn out. And the huge filling in it does not help. Age? I don’t remember anyone on that hit TV show “Thirtysomething” having worn-out teeth. She kept saying she was sorry, but I would need a crown. No problem, I thought. They’ll put a little cover on top of my tooth so that it does not fall apart. Anyway, a crown sounds pretty.
But nooooooooo. First the hygienist will make an impression of my teeth. My son recently had impressions made at the orthodontist’s office. He vomitted. Why do I suddenly feel eight years old?
Then the dentist has to file the tooth down to a “stump” (the hygienist actually used this word). Then they have a clone of my original tooth produced in a lab. The imposter tooth will be fitted onto the stump. Although it all sounded ugly, I trust my hygienist so I made the crowning appointment. Then a frightening thing happened.
My husband lost a chunk of his tooth. I may have white teeth, but John has iron teeth. I think he has had two cavities in his whole life. (And he is even older than I am.) He called the dentist--and was told he needed a crown. To add insult to injury, he would have to have this emergency coronation on Easter Sunday before church.
It turned out that John’s dentist gave him a bigger filling instead of a crown, but my sweet husband urged me to move my appointment up. He did not want me to chew chunky Trident like he did. I got on the horn first thing Monday morning. They got me right in.
Thank God, the impressions weren’t so bad. It was like biting down on soft wax. Then came the needle. Why do they make them so big and metallic? I wished I was eight and at my children’s pediatric dentist: “I’m going to put some strawberry jelly in your cheek honey, and then you will feel a little pinch.”
Don’t get me wrong. My dentist is wonderful--I don’t think it is a coincidence that she is a mom who does dental work part time so that she can spend time with her children. Dr. S. called out the essential advice, “Breathe through your nose!” Right! Like when I gave birth. Do the breathing. In, out, count. (That breathing has gotten me through many more medical procedures than just childbirth. Good value.)
I am a special patient. If there is something that only happens to 1% of people, it happens to me. My cheek did not tingle, like it was supposed to. It felt warm instead. Naturally, I stumped the dental staff. Dr. S., God bless her, waited. She gave me a few more shots of the good stuff. Then she waited some more. She refused to start on the stump until I told her that I tingled. I told you she was wonderful. She said she would start slowly and I should holler if I felt anything. (Actually she said I should put up one finger.)
Since I couldn’t bite a bullet, I squeezed my hands. I would have squeezed the arms of the dental chair, but I could not find them and I did not want to squeeze Dr. S. by accident. Next thing I knew two hygienists were coming at me, each holding open a giant plastic mitten. I’m not kidding. They were being very nice, but I really thought they were going to tie me down.
“Hot paraffin treatment,” smiled Dr. S., “because your hands were so tense.” I was baffled for a moment. How could I squeeze with these giant mittens on? Suddenly my hands were surrounded by the warmth of the hot wax. It was soft. I actually did not want to squeeze my hands anymore. Who would have guessed that going to the dentist would be like goining to a spa? They even gave me a hot moist towel afterwards.
When I got home, I sounded like an angry cleft pallet patient. I couldn’t open my mouth very much. The whole side of my face (including my ear!) was numb. My tongue would not listen to me. My words came out nasal and clenched.
My own children began to make fun of me! They mimicked the slurred way that I was speaking. We all laughed. I think it was healthy. Then my son said that he was imitating me because he felt bad that I was the only one who had to talk “funny.” I believed him.
Comments
I hope it made you laugh. That was my goal.
:)