“Just a Little Pinch, George”

…… My lips numb up. I feel them with my tongue, never convinced they are numb enough for the weapons’ onslaught. Dr. Doctor seems confident he has reached pain oblivion. He inserts a mouth gag, four large and hard tubular sponges to separate my lips and tongue, and a mouth spreader to hold the gaping oral cavity for his work. The nurse inserts a glass tube and begins sucking my lips, cheeks, and tongue into the device. She periodically squirts water into my mouth, and some leaks down my throat and nearly gags me. There is no conceivable way on earth to spit it out. She times the torrent to coincide with moments of apparent peace on my part.


Dr. now holds an electric drill up in the air, again in front of me, and he runs the motor to test its grinding noise. He changes the drill head, always choosing a larger one.


The drilling starts. I am correct, the pain recurs and I lurch my head forward and say “Aaaaaaarggg.” He stops for a moment.


“Does that hurt, George?”


No, I say to myself, I just always scream “Aaaargggg” at two in the afternoon, a throwback to Saturday Dracula movies. Dr. holds my head in a new wrestle move and tries again.


“Aaaaaarggg.”


He stops and thrusts more Novocain into my jawbone. I can tell by the sly glance at his nurse that they feel my low pain threshold is the issue. As a surgeon I pray one day to do his hemorrhoids and dilute the Novocain.


It works. The pain is gone. My mouth is numb, swollen, forced open, filled with cotton, metal, blood, debris. The script learned in dental school apparently now calls for distracting, casual conversation to show the humanity and friendliness of the dentist as he works. He chooses a conversation relevant to the times.


“So what do you think of the terrorist situation, George? Should we bomb them or negotiate with their leaders?”


“Aaaarg, dub brossie gaga.” My hand points up in a “V” for victory gesture. I force a half-smile which I doubt he can see. “Lubba da wha wha. Em brozia whalla.”


The nurse squirts a jug of water into my mouth and suctions. I cough and gag the rest out. Time to shut up, I guess she was telling me.


“Yes,” he says, “I think that’s true.” He either is being polite and following a script which tells him to agree with the patient or, equally likely, he feels he’s talking to his Labrador retriever and fills in the blanks as circumstances warrant.


“George, I’ve laid in the porcelain base and restructured the root substance and I’ll check it in a month. Do you have any questions?”


“Aaaarrg dem brogia la walla walla.” I wag my index finger.


“Yes, of course, George. See you in a month.” He departs.


The nurse squirts in my mouth, I gag and cough. She smiles and removes the bib.


“Thanks for coming, George,” the front desk clerk says with a smile. “Here’s your appointment for next month. Have a nice day.”


“Dum varra hwere walla,” I mumble through my numb lips and cheeks.


“Yes, George, of course. See you next month.”


I half-expect to receive a dog cookie for my behavior.


She hands me back my credit card. I check the cost. It was quite a pinch.