My Endodontist Does Not Understand Me

by Marinka on March 10, 2009

My endodontist does not understand me. I go to get a root canal taken care of and he gives me an injection that would numb a respectably sized elephant and when he leaves the room to see another patient while I enjoy the anesthesia, I immediately feel my throat close up and I am pretty sure that I am dying. I consider getting the receptionist’s attention, because she is right outside of the office where I am savoring my last few breaths, but at the same time, she is on the phone and I don’t want to interrupt her. So I texted Husbandrinka.

“I think I can’t breathe,” I pound out on my piece of shit phone. And then I wait for the rescue team to arrive. Ten minutes later, I realize that I texted his GSM phone, which he uses in Europe so that I can rest assured that as soon as he lands in Frankfurt on Wednesday, he will know that I am breathless.
“I think I can’t breathe,” I re-text his U.S. phone. And then I sit staring at my phone to see how long it would be before he texts me back and remind myself that a watched pot never boils (is the same thing true of microwaves? Because maybe we can update that expression. To be more modern and shit.)
Husbandrinka texts back: “I’m sorry to hear that.” He certainly is good at keeping calm.

Finally, my breathing evens out and I lay back in the chair, thinking deep thoughts. I am a very profound person and try not to let a lot of time pass in between engaging in some cerebral gymnastics. Especially if I’m in some forsaken WiFi-less trap. Seriously, how do these people work? What if there’s some kind of a breaking dental news in the middle of the afternoon–how will they find out about it?

Anyway, I’m having deep thoughts, along the lines of what if I die during the root canal, how will my family go on? Of course, Husbandrinka will remarry immediately, someone younger and fresher, and as I plan their wedding, I am completely enraged and think about what kind of person would remarry so quickly. I don’t understand how I could have shared a life with him, a life that is now over. Because I am dead. It will be tough for my kids, of course, but kids are resilient. And I’m sure their new stepmother will shower them with Wii games and Sims discs that will soften whatever sadness they feel. That fucking whore. I can’t believe that she’s going to buy my children’s affection this way. And she’ll probably take over this blog, too. My pride and joy. Watch the readership to “Whorehood in NYC” double as Whorinka starts posting. And then I think about the endodontist. How would he feel if I died mid-root canal? I wonder if he’d ever worked on a corpse before. Because that kind of thing can really fuck you up. Unless your job is doing autopsies or something, and then you really shouldn’t be working on people’s teeth.

So then it’s my turn, and my mouth is totally numb and the drilling starts and I wince (because I would prefer a less harsh sound), and he asks, “do you feel pain?” and I shake my head, but what I am unable to say, because my mouth is now a dental instrument showcase, is that although I do not feel pain, I am actually feeling pre-pain, which is something that very sensitive (and possibly insane) people feel in anticipation of the pain. I tried to relay this sentiment with my eyes, but it may backfire because he asks me if I need to use the ladies’ room. Which I do.

Everything ends painlessly and uneventfully, so that’s good. And yet, I feel like he and I really didn’t get to know each other. Like he missed the opportunity to get to know the real me. And I never had the opportunity to tell him about the pre-pain concept, which I suspect will be the next big break-through in dentistry. I mean, who doesn’t want a dentist that guarantees that the treatment will be pre-pain free?

One year ago ...

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