Tuesday, 23 May 2006 | They let me keep it

The dental hygienist smiled at me and squeezed my right shoulder in a maternal way. While I appreciated the gesture, it did little to make me feel at ease. What I really wanted was for someone to explain exactly what I could expect -- what type of anesthetic they would use, how long the procedure would take, or an assessment or examination of some sort. Instead, various white coats shuffled around me, mumbling to each other and placing scary tools on a tray by my head.

When I finally asked the hygienist whether I'd be getting "general anesthetic," she replied with contradictions, saying, "Yes, but we don't put you under. Only the big dogs do that. We are the small puppies," and then shrugged and left the room.

I waited for what felt like a long time, eyeing my cuticles and wishing I were back in the waiting room, reading. The theme song from the show Taxi played over the office speakers, twice, before the hygienist returned.

"Which of your teeth do you want to get taken out first?," she asked. "It's your choice! Do you have a favorite today?" Politely as possible, I asked, "Shouldn't we leave that up to the dentist?" No one had even glanced in my mouth yet.

I tried some questions on the dentist and told him everything I could think of that he might want to know about my dental history, in an effort to prevent any painful mistakes. "Slow down. One question at a time," he replied, before responding with more silence.

During the extraction, they told me I should make a sound if I feel any pain, so when they stabbed me, I made a small whimper, and they promptly gave me more anesthetic. When I tried that again, the hygienist chided me, "Now only let me know if you feel sharp pain, not just when you feel pressure. You will feel some pressure." I wanted to explain to her that the pressure itself was painful, but they had their hands stuffed in my mouth so I kept quiet.

It was over more quickly than I expected. Todd picked me up at the reception desk, bringing related literature he'd found online, Japanese ice cream, a camera, and his nice, familiar face. We rode in a cab with the windows down through an unfamiliar part of New York while I gnawed on gauze and involuntarily talked like Marlon Brando. We made jello, dyed eggs (months late), and watched movies, as I easily drifted in and out of consciousness. I pretended to need certain food for proper recovery (scorned items such as American cheese slices), and Todd tacitly agreed not to ridicule my dietary choices. Between naps we walked around the neighborhood until I started feeling the contours of my skull again, and then we'd head home and do more nothing. I liked that part.