I had just gone Christmas shopping and returned with a monster bag of presents and an equally large bag of treats~because, once again, I'm committed~and I'm generous. It's all or none, people. So anyway, in that bag was a sack of gumballs, which I ripped open the moment I sat down to wrap...it's called the rip and wrap...and it's another favorite part of the holidays. A present for you, two gumballs for me, another for you, three gumballs for me. Rip, wrap, chomp, chew. See how jolly? Anyway...
I bit down into an INCREDIBLY HARD piece of gum and as I tongued around in my mouth for it, had an explosive jolt of electricity shoot through my chest and brain as I questioned whether or not it really was an INCREDIBLY HARD piece of gum. Or, maybe...just maybe, it might be a PIECE OF BUSTED OFF TOOTH!!! DAMMITALLTOHELL!!! And as Bitty Boo suggested, my IQ immediately dropped several points as I became backwoods Mama Ethel with her scattered teeth rotting out of her head livin' in a single wide down by the river.
Now just for informative purposes, if there is something that rivals my passion towards chocolate and rabbit poop ice, it would be my fear~NAY, ABHORRENCE of the dentist. This stems, as most incidents in our lives, from an early childhood trauma which my own negligent parents subjected me to. (Bless their hearts.) It wasn't intentional, just based on ignorance, as all of the asinine things I've done to my own children can be traced back to. (My hands are clean, I tell you. CLEAN!)
Where was I? Oh, yes, dear mother took me to her regressive dentist (he actually walked backwards, which should have tipped me off,) where the room was poorly lit, dark brown (A~HA!) and dusty. I sat in the chair and he told me to "raise your hand when you feel pain" and then assured me that he would give me medicine if/when I signaled.
So I dutifully opened my five year old mouth to accommodate hairy fingers and metal implements, while the high pitch of the foot pedaled drill almost lulled me to sleep and slumber, so soothed I was by all that was taking place inside my orifice.
The moment I felt the sharp pain as drill hit nerve, my panicky hand shot into the air. He responded with...and I quote..."You're fine. Put your hand down." And then he physically pushed my trembling, rigid hand down to my side. I shiz you not!
That day, it ceased being an issue of "maintenance" and forever more became a matter of "only if a tooth snaps off at the root." Which brings me (and by me, I mean YOU, too, because you're my friends, and friends hold friend's hands while they make bone chilling phone calls to the dentist office) here. To this place (and by place, I mean in the library at the computer with another cup of what can only be deemed "a main reason for my tooth bust," rabbit poop ice~which I fully intend to omit from my explanation as to why I think my mouth is shattering~thus you see the guilt and shame which also makes it near impossible to dial that number and reddens my face as I write) And to this time (and by time, I mean three cussin' weeks before my son leaves for his mission, as well as three stressful and weighty weeks before Christmas, and basically at thee worst possible time in my life for facing another emotional ordeal as I MIGHT JUST SNAP AS QUICKLY AND SHARPLY AS MY OWN STUPID TOOTH DID. Just sayin'.) (more quick shallow breaths followed by a mouth full of ice chomping)
Which brings us back to the only thing to be said to fully encompass the magnitude of what has transpired. Dammitalltohell.
Feel free to quote me, because as friends who call the dentist for each other, we are as one, and my words are your words.
Here's the number. (My fingers won't work, I've tried.)