Stacy! Can you feel that?


This blog is a continuation of yesterday’s blog.

This had not been my day. I had woken up late, taken the fastest shower known to man, and mistakenly put humectant in my hair instead of styling gel. For those of you who may not know, humectant is kind of like Vaseline for the hair. Why does one use a product like this? Well, I seem to have a frizz problem and this keeps it in check. Used in small amounts it adds to the sheen and luster of your hair. Used in large amounts you look like you are either the most dedicated oil wrester in the history of the sport, or that you have been using your hair as a KY slip and slide.

Of course, I had already made it to work at the acupuncture clinic before I realized this, and now I would be giving all of our clients the impression that my bosses didn’t pay me enough to pay my water bill. Add this to the fact that my recent dental work made my face look like I went three rounds with Mike Tyson. Yep. Black and blue from my nose all the way down to my neck from where the dentist used a hammer (no shit, a hammer) to extract my molar. My patient and wonderful boss managed to cheer me up, like only she could, and I was actually starting to forget that I looked like Brad Pitt in Fight Club. Except that I’m nowhere as hot.

Our 4:00 coffee run rolled around and she treated me to mocha from the neighborhood coffee shop down the street. I started to think that I was going to make it. The day was almost over, and I had a yummy mocha as well. I went to sip my sugary coffee confection when I spilled it down the front of my white shirt. **Sigh** Can the day just end please so I can officially go drown my sorrows in alcohol and pretend I still look pretty? We closed down for the day and I gave my Swedish Amazonian boss a hug and kiss as we parted ways for our cars. Just one stop at the store on the way home, but I’ll run in and out. Nobody will see me…

“Hey Stacy!”
Shitshitshitshitshit!!!
“I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Eric. We had a few drama classes together at San Diego State,” he told me. Perfect.
“Oh…hey, Eric, it’s so nice to see you again,” I told him, having no recollection who the hell this guy was.
“Wow! You look really good,” he said while taking a quick peek at my bruises and my wedding ring. Oh crap, I thought to myself. If I tell him the bruising is from my dentist he’s really going to think I’m covering for my husband.
“You too! You look great!” I said back. God, I hate small talk. Isn’t this area known for drive by shootings? And where do I sign up? That would really be nice right about now. So let’s recap. I have greasy hair, my face is one giant bruise, and I have a giant coffee stain down the front of my shirt. What would just top my day off is if someone would walk by and give me some loose change. Now that would be the icing on the cake. So I made as little small talk as possible in order to maintain my dignity, get out of there, and get my ass home so my hubby can crack up about my walk down memory lane.

After a month or so went by I was perfectly healed from my tooth extraction and I began to rethink the whole implant thing. I mean, I looked so bad after the extraction and was in so much pain I wasn’t sure if I was going to have the balls to actually let them drill titanium into my jawbone. This was pretty extreme. Just how vain was I? Apparently pretty damn vain. We had already used Poptart’s big screen TV fund on my jaws of steel, and that didn’t include the porcelain tooth. This was becoming some very expensive granola.

It was the morning of the surgery and I had already told myself that I was not going to chicken out. What would Brad Pitt do? First rule of titanium tooth club: don’t cry about titanium tooth club. So I held my ground and waited for my name to get called. When the nurse came out and called my name my husband kissed me goodbye and I swear I heard him say, “it was nice knowing you.”

I was led back into the same white room. And I was hooked up to the same machine. This time I had the cute Asian dentist, but I was really bummed that my Temptations weren’t there to sing me off to slumber. Just numbers. “100, 99, 98, 97…” And…out. Except I woke up. I wasn’t supposed to wake up. I sat straight up in the chair and that’s when I saw the cute Asian dentist and now I would say he looked more like the scared shitless dentist. “Stacy! Can you feel that?” he asked.
“Yethhh…” I told him. Really, I think he should have clarified what he meant by “that” when he said “can you feel that?” Because I could feel a LOT. I could feel that my mouth was being held open by something large and metallic. Oh, and I felt pain, a LOT of pain in the lower left side of my mouth. Then I felt a pinch in the right arm. And then I felt nothing.

“Stacy…Stacy,” I could hear the nurse talking to me. I opened my eyes and there she was smiling at me. Did I just dream that? Did I really wake up in the middle of the surgery? Do I really own a pogo stick with gold rims that spin? I had so many questions. I was so out of it and my mouth was packed with so much cotton I couldn’t speak. But once again, I didn’t feel a thing. “Stacy, your husband is waiting for you outside,” she said. I was led out to Poptart and we were given the same instructions as last time.

We refilled the Vicodin and went home and I took one right away and waited for what I was sure was going to be excruciating pain. But it never came. I only ended up taking one Vicodin out of that bottle and 6 years later I still have the same bottle. I know, I know. A waste of perfectly good drugs. I’ve surprised even myself.

I went back to the dentist a few days later for a check-up. I sat down in the cute Asian dentist’s office and we went over what was happening next. Once I healed I was getting the post screwed into the titanium implant and then I would go to my dentist’s office for the crown. “Stacy, do you remember anything from your surgery?” he asked.
“Yeah, I remember you saying, can you feel that? And I said, ‘Yes,’” I told him. He didn’t look happy. He should have consulted the Mad Scientist dentist. Didn’t he know I was “difficult?” That I’m a 2, 2, 3 girl? Two of the first injection, two of the second injection, and three of the third? Clearly he thought he was dealing with a rookie here.

The implant healed nicely and they kept a good eye on it making sure to check for infection along the way. It was time to put in the post and get the crown. I waited once again in the waiting room, which had now become my new home when my name was called. I told Poptart I loved him and where I had hidden some diamonds my mother had left me in case I didn’t live to tell the tale. I went into the office and the cute Asian dentist had me sit in the dentist chair and took out a metallic green post. “Open wide,” he said. Was he serious? No novocaine? No Temptations? No 2, 2, 3? Just open wide? He screwed the post in and that was it. There was no pain. It was awesome. “ Now go to your regular dentist and get your new tooth,” he said.

Poptart took me to my dentist and they were ready and waiting for me. I was ushered in and there was Whatsherfuzzy with my brand new tooth. I had seen her a couple of times for cleanings throughout this entire process, trying to make up for my years of dentophobia. I had since added an extensive cleaning and two beautiful new porcelain crowns to my ever-increasing dentist bill. And now I was about to finish off the implant with the third and final crown.

They fixed the new tooth to the post and used a tool that looked like a cross between a laser and a black light to secure the cement or super glue or what ever the hell they were using to keep the tooth attached. When it was done they handed me a mirror. I looked at my new tooth and I have to be honest, it was the most beautiful, perfect, white tooth in my entire mouth. It was so perfect I even toyed with the idea of knocking the rest of my teeth out with a hammer just to replace them all.

We have since moved to Houston and I’m due for a check up. I told my husband one of the molars on the right side of my mouth was a little sensitive. Instead of giving me any sympathy he immediately went out and bought his TV. “There is no way I’m letting you eat up my TV again,” he told me. I can’t say I blame him. I still eat granola but now I crush the shit out of it with my titanium tooth. If I had to do it all over again I wouldn’t change a thing. Except maybe the waking up in the middle of surgery part. I’m okay with it, but I think I may have scarred the cute Asian dentist for life. I’ve heard he now walks around in a t-shirt with a coffee stain on it, talking to himself, while wearing copious amounts of humectant in his hair. Don’t worry about him though. People in San Diego are very generous with their loose change.

Love it? Hate it? Let me know! Send questions, comments, brownie recipes or random brainfarts to: mrsdiagnosed@yahoo.com

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