It wasn’t supposed to be like this. (2/4/11)

A crown popped off of the top of one of my back teeth last week, so I made an appointment with my dentist to have it replaced. Simple enough, right?

Not so much.

Turns out there was a fair amount of decay that had migrated below the gum line and to the root. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the Starburst, Jolly Ranchers, and Skittles I gorge on just about every night. So what happens when you have decay below the gum line? Your friendly neighborhood periodontist gets involved.

In my case, he was called upon to do a benign-sounding procedure known as a crown lengthening. “Nothing to worry about,” the folks in my dentist’s office reassured me while urging I make the appointment for as soon as possible.

Boy, am I a sucker, or what?

Now, I know that any procedure that involves the manipulation of soft tissue has the potential to be a little invasive, so I decided to schedule the appointment as far into the future as possible. This gave me all of three days – Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday –

to prep for Friday morning’s appointment. I spent the time worrying less and less as the time grew near.

Sign #1 that it was going to be a bad day: I didn’t sleep the night before. I was worried I wouldn’t wake up in time to catch my train, so ironically, I did not sleep. I was awake when my alarm went off and when Lynn called. Exhausted and growing nervous, but awake.

Sign #2 that it was going to be a bad day: The train I wanted to catch never arrived. I wanted to ride in on an express, so as not to let the tension build. Instead, the local pulled up 10 minutes late, crammed with surly passengers. Somehow, I found a seat of my own. The train crawled toward the city as my heart rate accelerated.

Sign #3 that it was going to be a bad day: Once I finally made it to the office, I was pacified to the point of creepiness by the staff. Few things portend doom like overly kind and comforting people with sharp and pointy instruments within reach.

Sign #4 that it was going to be a bad day: There was a copious amount of blood-soaked gauze and cotton littering the assistant’s tray. I don’t think I was supposed to see that.

Proof positive that it was a bad day: Once the bloodletting was over and my mouth was sewn back up, I was told not to eat solid food for 10 days. So much for the, “nothing to worry about,” part. It’s freaking Super Bowl weekend. You know what that means? No pizza, nachos, chili, chips, Doritos, Cheetos, pretzels, burgers, buffalo chicken sandwiches, fried chicken, or Italian subs.

Nope, lucky me gets to sips lukewarm soup and squish Jell-O through the non-sutured side of my mouth. Pinch me, I’m dreaming.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. But there was a silver lining. Lynn hooked me up with two therapeutic wonders guaranteed to soothe the pain: a chocolate milkshake and a beaming smile. Even if it wasn’t supposed to be like this, I’ll take that any day.