Dinner: One pint of mint chip Ice Cream from Killer Creamery. One bag of Paleo Puffs from Lesser Evil. 20 fluid ounces of Coke Zero. One handful of Ibuprofen liquid gel caps. All consumed in front of the space heater while watching Star Trek Discovery and playing on Hive.
Comfort food. These days generally avoided or consumed only in small and sporadic quantities on Thursdays and Sundays, helping to maintain my girlish figure and prevent relapsing into feeding frenzies and rebuilding the cocoon of adipose once used to shield myself from the rest of the world and the rest of the world from me.
But tonight is different. Tonight the comfort is necessary. If I can only eat things that melt on my tongue they ought to at least be satisfying.
It's all about knowing the difference between the need for comfort and the need to escape. Lately I've been looking for ways to step outside the comfortable so that I can cultivate a unique writing voice that can navigate any terrain. It's not easy. Each time I think I'm doing something different I discover that I'm not. That I've just found a creative and colorful way to say the same things over and over. I need more life. More experiences. I need to get out into it and feel uncomfortable.
The universe grants my wish and sends me to the endodontist.
Three hours with my mouth open.
Be careful what you wish for.
It was episode two of a three-part series called Anna Gets Her First Root Canal. The first episode ran approximately ninety minutes, only about fifty of which were spent with my mouth propped open with a bite block that I convinced myself had never been in anyone else's mouth. The first episode was bad enough. Granted, the doctor had an incredible toothside manner and a calm confidence in her craft. But having machinery operating on bones only a few inches from your brain is traumatic. Having to sit through it voluntarily is traumatic-er.
And then there's the smell.
It hits you like a sack of dead possums. You can't get away from it. Breathe through your mouth and you'll drown in your own saliva. Hold your breath and you'll pass out. You're left with no choice.
Breathe in.
A month's worth of dead wet moss mulched together with leaves and maggots.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
The water in that vase of sunflowers that you bought in August and never threw out.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Necrotic tissue. Dead bits.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Oh fuck, that's ME. That's MY mouth. MY tooth. MY rotting flesh right next to my brain.
Breathe out.
Episode two cut right to the chase. No x-rays, no pleasant conversations about what to expect. Just get on the table and open your mouth. Lets see what other rotten shit you have hiding in that tiny little molar of yours.
I wore headphones. Listened to the deep and soothing voice of James Naughton narrate the life travels of Barry Lopez. Listened to the drill. To the lull of conversation going on around me between the experienced doctor and the third-year students. A couple of times I may have dozed off. Until the anesthetic started to wear off.
Zing!
Full body spasm. Big needle comes out. Maybe injected into the root, maybe the gum. Fine for a while.
Zap!
Big needle again.
And then the full bladder. Each time it felt like things were wrapping up for the day something else would happen. I finally had to interrupt. I pulled out my phone to type a message. I don't know why I felt it necessary to write a full, coherent sentence. I tried to write I'm about to pee my pants but it was hard to see behind the goggles and the green latex tent they'd pitched over my open mouth to keep my tongue clean and out of the way. I kept making typos.
I'm abup--
I'm abooout to per-
I could have just written Pee! or even P! Luckily she got it right away. She took out the dental block and I slobbered my way down the hall to the bathroom with the whole setup hanging off my face. I peed for a minute straight. When I got up to wash my hands I didn't look in the mirror. Didn't want to give the unconscious any new ideas for nightmares.
It's over, now. I'm exhausted. Full. My guts are churning from stress and all the xylitol in that keto ice cream. My eyelids are drooping but I'm making myself finish this damn blog and post it whether or not it's any good. I'm tired of writing about the same shit. I need new thoughts. New experiences. This counts. Even if it sucks. Even if my story is boring.
Appointment three is next week. But I plan to check out. I'll see if I can get my hands on a xanax or something. And I'll wear a diaper. Fuck it.
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