My Dentist Appointment

“You’re class III, did anyone tell you that?” the dental technician asked me, after leading me into the somewhat cramped but clean examination room.

“Well, yes,” I responded uncertainly.

“So you must know that because you are Class III, this sheet must go to your commanding officer. A follow-up appointment must be made before you leave the dentist’s office, and only your commanding officer is authorized to change your appointments and you may not miss any of your appointments without prior approval from him or her,” she said briskly, as she attached the waterproof napkin with what I always refer to as the “stainless steel necklace.” 

“Oh! No, I didn’t know that. But okay.”

Everybody knows that a soldier is not a soldier, or an airman is not an airman, without a brilliant smile and a painless grin. The military will not deploy a person to a remote location if they have dental problems (like a crown that has to be replaced, as in my situation) severe enough to warrant “Class III” status. Well, not like I would have been sent anywhere in the next several months, anyway, I thought to myself.

The dentist came in, did his thing of explaining the absolute minimum with what was wrong in my mouth, and the technician and he immediately teamed up on either side of me. They had me pry my mouth open, and they began poking around with their metal dentist utensils. I suppose he found where he was going, because before I knew it he had that scary-looking anesthetic needle out, and (I know everybody loves this part) I could feel him sticking my cheek and filling it with numbing fluid. Unfortunately, it wasn’t before he had dropped some topical anesthetic in the back of my throat, making me feel like I had lost whatever semblance of swallowing ability I had left after being laid flat on my back.

It was only minutes until they slapped a 6-inch by 4-inch rubber band (the texture of a popped balloon) over my mouth and were literally flossing it between the teeth on one side. It was completely unexpected, and I thought they were trying to suffocate me, but by this time I had so many things in my mouth all I could do was flail my arms and gasp.

“Are you all right?” the dentist asked, pulling away from his task for a moment to look at my wild eyes. (Actually, he couldn’t see my eyes, because I had on those dark glasses that I would normally wear when operating a weed-eater.)

All I could do is make some completely jarbled noises and gestures. I tried, very unsuccessfully, to demonstrate to the doctor that I couldn’t breathe; I did this by placing my hand over my chest and moving my hand up and down, then giving him the “cut off” sign like I was asking him to just stop right there and let me go home. He didn’t get it.  I couldn’t breathe, dang it all! In retrospect, my gestures could have been more enlightening, but I think my brain wasn’t receiving enough oxygen at the time to be thinking clearly. If it had, I probably would have just tried to breathe through my nose.

The dentist was very sympathetic to what he thought was my plight: “I know it feels very numb, but you are able to swallow. The medicine doesn’t take away your ability to swallow. If you need any suctioning, just raise your left hand,” he commented, as he returned to his task of working on my teeth. My hand went straight up, and in the split second between when she lifted up the suffocating mask and placing the suctioner in my mouth, I managed to say “I CAN’ BREE!” She was very nice and suggested to the doctor that they cut a small hole in the plastic so that I wouldn’t have hyperventilate solely through my nose. How considerate.

It was a long appointment. I had to use all of my energy to concentrate on breathing through my nose, and every once in a while I would begin to panic when the plastic would creep up and cover my right nostril (which was completely numb, by the way, along with that entire side of my face). The blasted technician only suctioned when I “asked” her to, and I promptly realized that the more I needed suctioning, the longer this process was going to last.

The dentist was very optimistic about my mouth, and told me that he would never have known it to be seven years since I had seen the dentist. I agreed, with at least three tennis balls’ worth of equipment in my mouth. However, I am 75% certain that, as he was finishing the fillings, I saw him take a closer look at something and say “Damn!” under his breath, before asking the technician for a different tool. I’m not sure what he was swearing about, but I was in no position to question him at that point.

When they finally finished, he shook my hand and said he would see me at the next appointment. I asked him what they still had to do in my mouth besides the new crown (the old one was installed incorrectly); he said that they would need to finish giving me fillings for the four cavities on the bottom teeth. I kind of gasped, and said “What? I have four more caries? Nobody told me I had any cavities at all on my bottom teeth!”

I’m sure he commiserated with me regarding the lack of communication, but he didn’t have time to respond. It’s all right; I’ll eventually get my teeth problems corrected. Until then, I’d better not miss an appointment.