Living Retired –‘Tooth Be Told’

Living Retired — ‘Tooth Be Told’

By Gary Chalk.

 

As I left the house last Monday morning to go to the dentist for a dental implant, Jan said, “Good luck Gary. You had an implant many years ago so you know the drill.” Gee thanks!

 

In the procedure room I stretched back in the plush reclining leather lounge. A dental assistant tucked a bib around my neck and had me sign a waiver. That is when it happened…

 

It seems my signature was music to their ears. And mine! Suddenly the room came alive with piped-in music: ‘Kokomo’ by the Beach Boys. “Aruba, Jamaica, oooh I want to take you. Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama.” Another assistant danced towards me and slipped a pair of dark sunglasses over my eyes. The party was underway — until I glanced down at my feet and realized I was wearing memory-foam, relax-fit Skechers. There was nothing in the pre-visit instructions about wearing my flip flops!

 

One of the dental assistants began to tilt the lounge back, back, back very slowly. Down, down, down. When my head felt like it was maybe a foot from the floor and my feet reached up towards the ceiling the blood rushed to my head. My eyes bulged! “There we are Gary, you’re in the right position.” I expected the dentist to glide in on one of those rolling thingamajigs mechanics use when they work under your car!

 

Just when the Beach Boys and I were singing the chorus — “Aruba. Jamaica. Oooh I want to take you. Bermuda, Bahama. Come on pretty mama” — one of the dental assistants said, “Gary, first we need to take a couple of x-rays.” With that the two of them traipsed out a heavy protective apron and heaved it over my shoulders up under my neck. I was pinned flat on my back on the lounge. They positioned what looked like one of those handheld radar guns the police use to nab speeding drivers up against my cheek. What happened next was a stampede: the two dental assistants turned and ran out of the room! It was like the Three Stooges trying to get through the door. They crouched down towards the floor to avoid the ‘minimal levels of radiation.’ I couldn’t see through my light-blocking sunglasses but using some sort of radiation-detecting Geiger counter they swept the room and called the ‘all clear.’ This is when the dental assistants re-entered along with the dental surgeon.

 

Before you could say ‘open wide’ my mouth was swabbed. Waiting for the analgesic to freeze my mouth the surgeon and I chatted. He said as a kid he wanted to play for the Toronto Raptors. Later, when I saw his bill I realized he couldn’t take a cut in pay to be a professional basketball player! Yikes!

 

We stopped talking about dribbling basketballs when I began dribbling down onto the bib. I very clearly enunciated, “My moushhh feellshh frosshenn.” That’s when one of the dental assistants leaned down to me with two paper cups: one with water, the other with four pills the size of those silly Smart Cars! Have you ever tried to drink water lying on your back? I thought the United Nations banned water torture!

 

For the next hour or so I felt very little — maybe it was the novocaine but I did have the sensation of someone’s hand in my wallet in my back pocket confirming my dental coverage. Just saying.

 

Later that morning…

 

At home I called the pharmacy to arrange to pick up a prescription for pain control.

 

“Hi. Thish ish Gahhree Shhook calling. My dentisht arranssshed for shumshing for pain. Ish it reshee?”

 

“Sorry, I don’t see anything here for a Mr. Shock.”

 

“NO!! Plleeshh lushhen carrrflee!!! Ittch Gahhree Shhook. Itchh sphellld: Shhe- Haghhht- Ahh— Ull — Kaw!” SHHOOK!”

 

“Mr. Shock are you sure you are all right?” Are you suffering a medical misadventure?”

 

“Yesh. My mouff ishh froshen. Shhorrry.”

 

Here is what I have learned. Undergoing a dental implant is like what happens after you the drink that stuff the night before your colonoscopy: you keep on going! I already have the next appointment in my day timer. It’s in November. Brace yourself: I’ve also made a note to wear my flip flops.

 

‘Hospital Insider’ is written by humour columnist Gary Chalk.

 

For more laughs visit www.LivingRetired.press

 

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