A dramatic tale of extreme chicken-ness

"Just show me where it hurts the most, okay?" the organ surgeon said, and then pressed some kind of dental instrument into my mouth which resulted in me screaming and kicking Mr. Jenny.

Yeah.

I'm dramatic like that.

Having shattered a molar on Thursday night, I spent much of the night a) freaking out about having to get it pulled and b) freaking out about missing job training for my new job and c) freaking out because it hurt so freakin' much.

Mr. Jenny, God Bless his soul, begged and pleaded an appointment for me early Friday afternoon at the only oral surgeon I've ever gone to that hasn't given me dry socket or strapped my down to a chair while sitting on my chest chiselling out the broken tooth for an hour or two.

I tried to wiggle out of going on the grounds that I couldn't leave work early.

Yeah. That didn't work out.

My job trainer was super supportive and told me he'd help me catch up on Monday and all my virtual classmates were kind in their best wishes at the dentist.

So there I sat in the exam room. The surgeon, apparently unable to believe his expensive x-rays, insisted that I point to the tooth that had broken.


"Yes, it's shattered, all right," he agreed after peeling me off the ceiling. "This tooth is not salvageable. We need to pull it."

I wanted to be sarcastic but I refrained, having learnt from past experience it is never a good idea to tick someone off who has you confined in a chair and has all kinds of point-y and hurt-y objects at his fingertips.

I took a deep breath.

And then burst into tears.

Because, yeah...

I'm dramatic like that.

And I hate having my teeth pulled.

And I'm not especially fond of getting knocked out.

So I walked down the hall like I was heading to the death chamber.

Dragging my feet like a rebellious five year old, Mr. Jenny practically had to yank into the surgical suite.

Sure, they gave me strawberry scented laughing gas to take the edge off.

Sure, they covered me with a fuzzy brown blanket because I was all shivery.

Sure, they told me I would be asleep for the whole thing.

Sure, the said when I woke up that my tooth wouldn't be hurting anymore.

But still.

I didn't want to do it.

I cried.

I pleaded.

I promised God I would be a better person.

I begged the dentist not to hurt me.

I struggled to keep my eyes open to avoid the abyss of possible death by dental extraction.

But I succumbed to the anesthesia in the IV.

...

...

And you know what?

Darned if they weren't right.

My tooth wasn't hurting anymore when I woke up.

...

...

But since I practically died...

And I was weak from the surgery and all.

...Mr. Jenny pretty much waited on me hand and foot all weekend fetching mashed potatoes from KFC and milkshakes from Sonic.


Which I needed.

I mean...

...being weak and all from the trauma and the major surgery.

...

...

Okay.

Sigh.

I admit it.

I'm just a teensy bit dramatic once in a while.

...

But even chickens don't like having their teeth pulled.


So there.