I blame it all on emo. We glorify heartache and unrequited love so much that sometimes, we forget what real pain is all about. Real, honest-to-goodness, physical pain: the kind you get from botched (and yet completely necessary) tooth extractions.
The saga of my miserable tooth has come to a rather climactic end this morning. Rather than opt for oral surgery, the dentist decided to take out my tooth by hook or by crook. Four ampules of anaesthesia and a nerve-block didn’t do anything to numb the godforsaken molar.
Anaesthesia will never work. So the dentist decided to pull it out the hard way.
When confronted with physical pain, it’s perfectly OK to cry. If you twist your ankle the wrong way and the hilot comes in to force the joint into place, there’s nothing wrong about wailing like a banshee. Now if you have a numbed mouth and a dentist prying away at the offending tooth with a pair of dental pliers, crying is really not an option. Nor is screaming with the primal, guttural tone of a caged animal.
I just squirmed in that dental chair. Like I was chugging a bad lime tequila, or that leeches were making their way up my rectum. Perhaps even rigor mortis.
The tooth extraction seemed to last forever. The pliers made the death grip. It was a good thing I took a piss early in the morning, or else I would have wet my pants with sheer, excruciating pain. Twisted ankles, tweaked knees, and a broken heart are nothing compared to a heavy-handed dentist pulling out your impacted and decaying molar with sheer brute force. If that’s not pain, I don’t know what is.
Snap! I thought it was over. Nope, the dentist managed to snap the tooth, leaving part of the crown and the roots of the tooth behind. There was no other alternative for the dentist but to pull it out. Sideways, upward, a bit of rotation, lateral movements… I didn’t know whether to cry, take a shit, or go blind.
Did I mention it took two dentists to do this?
After four dental appointments and eight ampules of novocaine, the tooth lost by knockout. The soonest I got back my wit and normal blood circulation, I took a picture of the offending tooth:
I could have taken a clearer picture, but my hands were too unsteady to immortalize the offending tooth. The red stuff on top is actually a cyst: hardened pus that was responsible for the anaesthesia not working. Now that I managed to kick my tooth’s ass, I could probably go one on one with Manny Pacquiao right now.
So talk all you want about the pain of loving someone who doesn’t love you back, or the pain that comes with your self-inflicted emotional misery, or the pain of belonging to someone else when the right one comes along.
Some people will blog today about the pain of a broken heart. I, Maro-Freakin-Charim, just blogged about a dental extraction without anaesthesia. Who’s got the pain now, eh?