Dentistry: the ultimate weight loss plan.

Three dental visits in one week makes me deeply regret every single Lucky Charm marshmallow, doughnut, Ben & Jerry's pint tub of Cherry Garcia and Slurpee I've ever had as a kid. Sweet Jesus have mercy.

I was never one of those kids who had a phobia of going to the dentist. I didn't like it, obviously, because you need to be a special sort of masochist to enjoy a trip to the ivory snatchers. But I was never terrified of it, especially since the introduction of topical anaesthetics (all hail the gods of lignocaine). I even sort of like my dentist, who will happily explain complicated concepts in exacting detail and who has a very liberal hand with the lignocaine. I just found it fairly disgusting that someone whose name I didn't even know would be allowed to poke latex-covered fingers into my mouth. Does anyone else find the sexual parallels unsettling? Dentists must all be a little fucked in the head.

But an unfinished root canal 2 years ago (long story) resulted in intolerable pain and a systemic fever two months ago that resulted in chills so bad that I couldn't stand up. I broke into the worst cold sweats and when I could stand again, crawled around like a cretin trying to change the sheets because they were grossing me out. Desperate, I hauled ass to the first dentist I could score an appointment with, which turned out to be a bloody waste of time because after cleaning out the pulp chamber and a short course of antibiotics, the pain came back less than a week later. Thank god, after another course of medication which I dosed from my own private stash, it resolved. I might as well have wiped my ass with the hundred bucks I paid them and then set fire to it for all he good they did.

So since I was back in town, I thought I'd get myself fixed up once and for all. This meant two and half hours of chronic dry mouth while my dentist did some seriously uncomfortable things that looked like very refined instruments of torture. It hurt less than expected, all points considered. I nearly fell asleep, which shows how little it hurt. My last appointment is scheduled for this Saturday.

Unfortunately, after the local anaesthetic had worn off, pain started a party in my mandible, and by Monday, the tooth was throbbing in my gum in time with my pulse. Miserable, severely mosquito-bitten and almost giving in to the urge to steal hippo painkillers from the pharmacy, I called my dentists and asked if this was normal. Wait til Wednesday, they told me, and if the pain doesn't subside, come in.

I made the reluctant trek back to the dentist (although if I'm honest, I actually relished the excuse to miss a day of my practical, even if it meant extensive drilling and invasive procedures being performed unpleasantly close to nerves. This shows exactly how little I'm enjoying this bastard practical.). There, I submitted to having the filling on Saturday drilled and removed and the root canals re-opened. I was relaxed and a little sleepy, and I wasn't paying attention as the dentist put a tiny little file down one root canal and very gently started twiddling it. He'd done it before and I didn't feel a thing.

Which is why I wasn't prepared for the massive bolt of agony that whipcracked through my spine and caused a reflex snap that nearly cost my dentist his index finger. Lucky for him he'd given me a bite block before he started. My expletive-infused "FuckOW!" came out as a gurgled "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH" and tears of pain sprang to my eyes, which sort of diluted the death glare I gave to the perpetrator when I eventually regained voluntary motor control over my body. "There, there, it's okay," said the nurse, patting my shoulder, reminding me far too much of how I talk to my patients for my liking. It also brought to my attention the fact that I was breathing like I'd gone for a hard run. It reminded a little of the time I got electrocuted on a farm fence.

Just like that, my dentist lost every single scrap of trust that I had invested in him. After that, every instrument he picked up was rewarded with flinching and a suspicious glare. "Tell me if it hurts, okay?" he said encouragingly, to which I grunted, which meant (imagine snarling) You bet your ass, mister, and if you just take out this bite block, I'll SHOW you too.

Everything hurts, and I could only look mournfully at dinner tonight and feeling a sudden massive flare of sympathy for all those dogs that get dentals at our incompetant hands. In the future, I am going to stuff my patients so full of post-dental painkillers that they're going to think they're walking on two legs chasing pink kittens over fields made of Greenies.

It was STILL better than going to prac though. So there.