Adventures at the Dentist

Normally I wouldn't consider a trip to the dentist blog-worthy, but when a routine teeth cleaning turns into 7 visits culminating in a mouth splint as the grand finale, I'd say that's worth writing about.

Let me clarify something right now. Yes, I brush my teeth. Yes, I am familiar with—and quite fond of dental floss. I'm even enamored with my dentist who tells the same bad jokes and hums an impressive repertoire of easy listening tunes while drilling out bits of my teeth.

This whole thing started back in August when I enthusiastically shoveled a forkful of scramble into my mouth and chipped my front tooth in the process—a bent fork tine the culprit for my disfigurement. After hours of assessing the damage with my tongue, I finally called and made an appointment. Monday morning couldn't come soon enough.

Sure enough, the day arrived and at 8:30am I'm reclined and ready. By 8:45 my smile is restored and I'm given the thumbs up to attack apples with abandon. So when a teeth cleaning was highly encouraged at 8:50 (of which I was reminded I was 8 months overdue), I agreed with something akin to enthusiasm.

Before I bore you to tears, I'll cut to the chase: I grind my teeth. I clench my jaw. Apparently I'm so stressed out that I grind out fillings with relative ease. I'm so stressed out that I've created enough fissures to host a compound of cavities. Given my zeal for dental hygiene, it was a rather depressing report card from Dr. Warden, who had notably stopped humming Whitney Houston to give me the update.

Last Thursday marked the last of the drilling and filling. Now it's on to the mouth splint, a device I'm certain will conjure up distant memories of being shamed into wearing a headgear because my two front teeth couldn't agree on a direction.

Oy.