I have clear memory of being a young child, pensive in the dentists' chair, him with jet black hair, overly large head, glasses, good teeth. He said "so, how are the prettiest choppers in town doing?" Yes, he asked my teeth a question, but they were shy so remained silent. My teeth must have felt like a pair of nice breasts when some perv asked "well hello, what's your name?" This happened to a girl I knew later in life---she answered "uh, they don't have a name, or .. names. Hello ... the part of me that talks is up here!"
I assumed that the dentist said that to all the teeth, that mine were about average, but later learned it was pretty much true. My teeth were straight, no gappage, rather big for the size of my head, as were my ears, but generally good. Of course at that age I could not have cared less.
My father however, somewhere around that time, seemed to think I was tending towards bucktoothedness, and advised me to push on my front teeth, in my spare time when no one was looking, or at night while waiting to fall asleep, the idea being, I suppose, to save on orthodontic fees as money was always tight. So I did that, therefore developing my first complex. Or maybe second---I was keenly aware even before that, that my ears were adult sized, by kindergarten. Eyes too. I was certifiably funny looking as it turned out.
Fast forward to this year, this month, this week, yesterday ...
In the dentists' chair, being x-rayed and prodded by a hawt hygienist, Jessica, a poster four feet away on the wall describing all the awful stuff that happens when one ignores dental care, like me. Pensive once again. A composite filling installed a couple years ago had fallen out, leaving that tooth, #30 (second from back lower right) sensitive to hot, cold, pressure .. all stimuli really, and on top of that had an obvious infection, causing a dull pall of fairly constant pain from eye socket to ear canal to esophagus.
Enter the dentist, also Jessica, twice as pretty as Jess#1, youngish, model-bod, best teeth I've ever seen bar none. Doctor Jessica told me, first things first, that #30 was cracked plumb through from crown to root. It was abscessed, duh, and #31 at far back was inflamed. 31, savable with a root canal and crown, but crack boy had to go. I was completely expecting this and ready to get on with it.
Enter the resident strawberry blond, Monique, shortish, attractive but with rather bent canines. She ushered me to another room in back without windows, me, assuming they don't want anyone peering through, witnessing unpleasantness in the extraction quarters. Before surgery, she explained, they must test blood pressure. Whatever and fine, let's get 'er done I said. So, a wrist cuff, and what? 163/102? What the mother eff? Monique turned a shade more pale, or maybe it was my imagination. She grabbed the tester that goes around your bicep ... pump pump pump .. ouch ... 170/107.
Monique said "you walked in here; we want you to walk out of here" which helped to relax me. Said she was going to try a trick, but if that bottom number wasn't below a hundred it was no bueno. There is epinephrine in the anesthetic which makes the heart rate accelerate, she girlsplained patiently. The trick was half a cup of ice water, which I drank. Three minutes later she did the test again.
It was higher yet! Didn't look at the number but she told me, and I believed her, as panic attack began in earnest.
Last year we did a job for a lady whose husband had suffered a stroke. His name starts with T. This guy can sit up in a chair, and talk, but he drools and is otherwise completely crippled. Tomorrow we start work for another lady whose husband had a stroke, name also beginning with T. Apparently, as a result, he now has "aphasia" which means he cannot communicate verbally, but can still blog. Tr ig, would rather have an anvil fall on his head ala Wiley Coyote than to suffer such a fate.
Snaggletooth Monique sent me away, 'script for amoxicillin in hand, advising I see a doctor, or maybe go to the emergency room, but instead I came home, downed a Modelo, sat back in the barcolounger, and practiced meditation .. a thing girls do that I've heard of. Couldn't hurt I surmised. After a short time I tested my BP with Asia's wrist gizmo. 130/82 ... called my son the Navy medic. He said it might not be that awful. This morning, tested again ... 120/55, which is around what it's been all my life, thus my surprised consternation yesterday.
Which brings me the point of this story. I am far too young, pretty, talented, busy ... to die or become an invalid, but too hard-headed and stoopid to take care of myself.
It's a conundrum.
Below .... ART!