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February
/ March 2006 Contest Results |
The Root Of All
Evil
By
Kathleen Bowling, California
Who needs a
Caribbean cruise or renovated kitchen when, for roughly the same price,
you can enjoy an excruciating root canal complete with crown made from
the same material used to construct toilet bowls?
This year, just
for fun, I decided to spend my entire federal tax refund on a new molar.
Problems with the original tooth began on Christmas Eve, 1999. I was
chewing on something crunchy in Aunt Wilma’s eggnog when the pain first
hit.
My husband
turned to ask why I had poured the contents of my cup onto his pants
when my facial contortions told the tale: Our annual Christmas
pilgrimage to the emergency room would remain a time-honored tradition.
Heavy medication
kept the pain at bay through the holidays. And by the time our noble fir
bit the dust, I had concocted a cache of excuses to keep my mouth far
from the reach of the dentist’s drill. How could I be expected to seek
medical intervention with so many important tasks requiring my
attention? That spring, I found time to clean out the closets, rearrange
my daughters’ sock drawers, and repaper the cabinets in the laundry
room.
The temporary
crown might have made it to my funeral had it not been for a colorful
piece of concrete I ate while watching Minority Report. As Tom Cruise
was having his eyeballs replaced by an evil madman, I bit into a Skittle
which had obviously been left over from the original batch. When my
tooth shattered, I didn’t even notice the difference between the texture
of the candy and the jagged shards of enamel I swallowed.
I reluctantly
scheduled an appointment, laughing at my adolescent attempts to delay
the inevitable. It was not until doomsday, when I sat bat-like with the
blood rushing to my head, my cranium dangling precariously close to the
commercial-grade carpet, that it all came back to me…the reasons I hated
this sadistic drone and all of her evil peers. Dental work sucks! As she
probed my mouth, my eyes darted feverishly around the tiny cubicle that
was now my prison. Staring at me from the corner of the examination room
was a small harlequin marionette suspended on a wooden swing. Who but a
crazed lunatic would decorate with a clown?
“How did you
break your tooth, Mrs. Bowling?” she asked.
Staring at the
hypodermic needle she held, how could I admit that, at 42, I had been
binging on a product marketed exclusively to pre-teens? I decided to
lie.
“I was eating
food.” (As opposed to eating a truck.) I’m not good at deception.
“Food, huh? What
kind of food?” Her accusations were relentless.
Seven shots of
Novocain later, my mouth was roughly the size of Texas. I could barely
form words. But that didn’t keep me from feeling the sharp end of an
unforgiving dental instrument digging into the soft tissue that once
resembled my gum. I tried to be tough. I clenched my fists but couldn’t
keep from wincing in pain.
“I’m afraid that
someone needs a root canal.” I looked around to see who she was talking
about. Was it the clown?
“I’m going to
refer you to an endodontist,” she continued. Roughly translated, that
means, “Get ready to buy the doctor his next Lamborghini.”
Two unbelievably
short years later, I ran out of excuses and had to show up for my root
canal. Dr. Nip’s waiting room featured brown metal folding chairs whose
uneven legs rattled repeatedly on stylish faux-brick linoleum. The
sparse décor made me worry about his credentials.
“Did the doctor
actually attend dental school, or was he enrolled in one of those
correspondence courses?” I checked with his receptionist.
Dr. Nip’s exam
room was clown-less. The only thing I could see during the 47-hour
procedure was a dizzying array of stained ceiling tiles. I wondered how
patients had managed to drop entire cups of coffee onto the ceiling. I
was finally allowed to leave after signing over the deed to our house.
After several
return trips to see Bozo (and her puppet-friend,) I am happy to report
that my new porcelain crown is fine. The tooth next to it, however,
began demanding attention the other day while I attempted to chew a
Starburst. This time around, I’m going to book an appointment right
away... that is, as soon as I finish organizing about 14 years of family
photos.
http://www.BowlingWrite.com
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