It's 8.43 Election Morning as I sit here at my desk the skyline of Manhattan's Upper West Side over my right shoulder and the sound of drilling. . .the sound of drilling. . .the sound of drilling coming from the building next door.
Can't get away from it. You see, I did travel upstate for Halloween weekend--for a time of crisp country drives and walks through a town consisting of 1 grocery store, 1 restaurant, 1 'video' store. To help my Aunt finish her canning for the year and to work on my projects upstairs in my room with the lovely golden quilted twin bed and the views over barns and rooftops.
What I did instead was roll on that bed, punching it in agony and shaking my fist at the skies. Or that was the first night, after my dental hell kicked back in, in high gear. By night #2 I was on codeine with acetaminophen. . .much less cursing and wailing, except for the early hours of the morning when the drug would wear off. I didn't cry--the crying came later.
And re. Codeine: That is, I must say, a pretty damn nice drug.
By Sunday my face swelled up to look as if my Aunt had been smacking me with a frying pan (enough codeine and I wouldn't have cared, really), and the throbbing twisting agony was making it impossible to sit still. Monday morning I had a pendulously large, square jaw--and a 3:00 meeting with my dentist.
Back in NYC, I wove my way down Columbus Avenue, clutching the hot egg-shaped swelling on my face--but like any self-respecting Manhattan woman was wearing a chic trench coat, immaculate heels, and clutching an over sized Canal street faux D&G bag. Glimpsing myself in shop windows I looked as if I were in a J. Crew shoot re-creating Munch's "The Scream"--one hand firmly clutched to jaw, eyes burning in pain, but a kicky little knot on my trench coat.
Got to 79th Street and my dentist--walked in looking forward to having this damn situation out of my hands and into someone else's. I expected the usual leisurely sit on the vinyl bench, more info about Madonna's divorce, some nervous glances from patients who wondered if my dental state was before or after treatment. . .
But one glance at me, and I was rushed into some secret back room I've never seen before: a lead apron was tossed over me, x-rays taken with quick intensity, instruments placed on high tables where I could only see their sharp tips gleaming. A gum specialist came in from God knows where. . .and next thing you know I'm being rushed E.R. style to another secret room--secret rooms come expensive in Manhattan, and should have made me worry--to be told what was going on.
I had a double abscess and would need an emergency root canal immediately. The infection over the last few days already had killed much of the gum surrounding the tooth and surgery would be required to trim the dead bits still carrying the infection. . .
Holy Crap. Emergency root canal. Not the way to begin the holiday season! It all began immediately, with the gum guy going in to the top abscess and pulling clumps of rotted gum out, before my guy went in to drill away my molar and do the emerg. root canal--such fun it was! The best part: Abscesses apparently don't take Novocaine as regular flesh does, so I had to have 3 direct shots into the burning infected center of the pain. After the root canal, the gum work proceeded, and then a temporary crown.
An hour later, with patients piled up in the waiting room glaring , until they saw the state of my face, I wobbled up to the desk and was given the bill. And that, after a week of what I was told is the worst dental pain you can go through, is when I began to cry.
I handed over my card, weeping. I wept in the elevator, and all the way home. I wept in the Duane Reade as I gave them my prescriptions for amoxycillin and more codeine. And in the elevator up to my apartment. Once I closed the door behind me, all pretense of stiff-upper lipping it was off and I wept like an Italian widow. . .
All my savings for a trip to Europe in the summer. Wiped out in one painful, painful afternoon.
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