Defender Of The Crown.

Nearly 32 years have passed without my having endured any signifigant oral trauma. Unless of course you count that one time in University when I woke up after a tryst feeling like my 'special purpose' had been sharpened by a beaver and added to a dam. Otherwise - lovely girl.

I'm told that my good dental luck stems from the fact that there is so much flouride in the water in Canada. I registered at a new dentist Friday after many years of truancy, and I now have an inevitable laundry list of repairs that are going to have to be made. The hygenist that cleaned my teeth said she had no comments regarding my general care - she was impressed. But as she packed up and got ready for the doctor, she eluded to a few issues that went beyond simple maintenance. My luck had run out.

Genetic enamel deficiency is the long term problem. If you want to suck face after looking at that link, ladies - take a number. But mine isn't too advanced and can be remedied with some artful bonding at the hands of my new yapper doctor, who seems like a great guy. I think I lucked out. But the immediate issue, which I was asked to rush back today to take care of, is my back right molar which has completely split vertically down the middle. I looked at it in the mirror and it was alarming - and a symptom of the overall enamel problem.

So I went in today for the first step in the crown procedure, which is to file down the tooth into a shadow of its formal self, and then take a mold for a porcelain replacement which will be constructed over the next couple of weeks. It did not go smoothly, and as I write I can feel the whackload of novocaine I was jagged with starting to wear off. I have a temporary cap over the little nub, but I predict problems before I get to wear the actual crown. Like King Richard.

The nerve that the doctor was trying to hit with the novocaine runs a different route in my face than is usual, apparently. The first shot gave me a little tingle, and the doctor started to file away. Whenever he'd hit the top of the tooth, where the crack is, this tremendous bolt of pain would rocket through my jaw. He gave me another and tried again. Same thing. Another. ZING. Another - the final count was 5 units. The amazed dental assistant showed me the empty glass vials incredulously while the doctor was seeing to someone else. She called me tough, and I replied "Lady, i don't want to be tough today." I began to pray feverishly for the drug tolerance of River Phoenix.

For the last shot, the doctor angled the needle away from where you're normally supposed to strike, and went very, very deep. I felt the left half of my face shut down immediately, and he was able to finish the job at hand. He told me not to go back to work, as apparently he felt he'd used enough of the drug to drop Kong, and I took the T home. So my point is, nearly 32 years of having cooperative choppers has come to an end, and I'm now about to embark on all the cringe-worthy stuff most people have already experienced by my age. Maybe now I'll be able to better appreciate Marathon Man.