going to the dentist, part 2

Not actually my dentist.

Generally, being able to visualize things in great detail before they happen is an asset, especially if one works as an architect to make her living. Not forseeing potential pitfalls can result in delays, lack of coordination between trades, change orders, and very pissed off clients. Therefore, I spend a great deal of my time and energy in my head completing things and then re-presenting those things on paper and in models to various clients and contractors.

I also have a tendency to do this with music. I zoom backwards and forwards within entire compositions finished inside my head by following the internal logic of a piece. These days, tunes which unfold in predictable patterns bore me; I prefer structures with unpremeditated outcomes.

Unfortunately, this capacity for visualization and preference for improvisation or experimental structures is of no use whatsoever when going to the dentist. In fact, it proves to be a bit of a hindrance. What I’m really trying to do here is develop a plausible excuse for you and me as to why I vomited and blacked out at the dentist’s office after he merely injected the novacaine into my gums. The dentist explained to me afterwards that my own fear caused me to go into shock/have a panic attack. He hadn’t even touched the wisdom tooth that was supposed to come out.

Ever seen the movies Pan’s Labyrinth (El Laberinto del Fauno) or Old Boy? Remember the sequence of the opening of the leather case with all of the metal instruments prior to the torture of the resistance fighter (PL)? I had to hide under my seat in the theater until my friend Kate tapped me on the shoulder to let me know the torture scene was over, and I’m not quite sure I’ve forgiven my ex for making me watch Old Boy with him on our second date ever. Tarantino’s splatter is laughably fake in all of his movies whereas Park Chan-Wook’s scene where a hotel-owner has his teeth forcibly removed with a clawhammer somehow is not.

I sit across from a man in my office everyday who has a 5-inch scar on his neck from a botched dental procedure. Some tissue became infected after the procedure resulting in a goiter-sized abscess that had to be drained. One of the veteran nurses from Columbia-Presbyterian eventually passed out when the abscess was punctured.

In an operation that went surprisingly well, my ex had his upper gums surgically removed, broken in three places, reinserted with metal posts, and his jaw wired shut for three weeks while it healed. He says there was blood everywhere.

So, when the dentist told me to swish and spit after he injected the novacaine, I should have seen just water, because there was only water. Through some previously unknown power of the mind, I instead saw blood. Perhaps it didn’t help that the dental assistant had opened up the tool pack (flashback to the leather case with torture instruments of PL) and spread out each of the utensils in front of me and then left me alone with my imagination for 10 minutes prior to the arrival of the dentist? In any case, the ability of the rational mind to override the creative capacity for envisioning a bloody and horrific destruction of teeth and gums ultimately failed me. I ordered the dentist out of the way lest the evidence of my nausea result on him, stumbled through the reception area as my vision went black, hit the doorway to the bathroom, fell on the toilet, vomited neatly, stood up, blacked out again, was aided back to my chair in a lying down position, given cold compresses on my neck and forhead, and slowly came to.

All this for a wisdom tooth that came in a bit awkwardly. Sometimes the fear is worse than the thing itself.

Other people have survived much, much worse procedures without novacaine, anesthetics, or painkillers of any sort; I should be able to do this. The ordeal has been rescheduled for this Thursday. I’ve self-perscribed a couple of Xanax and found a good blindfold.

From guy drinking beer (Dan) clockwise: Bayou Mermaid (Jennie); Blue (that's a dude with pasties) & UV (Kirsten), aliens from the planet Prudencia.

On Saturday, Coney Island hosted the Mermaid Parade (a day during which bodypaint and seashells become acceptable alternatives to clothing) and on Sunday, some friends and I watched Oakley Hall and Superchunk at the McCarren Park Pool. The bassist of Oakley Hall, Jesse Barnes, is an unbelievably nice guy, and if you ever see them perform, I urge you to buy him a beer. I was in a bit of a daze for the entire weekend because everything feels like it is fast-forwarding back to the dental chair.

The guy for whom you should buy a beer is on the right.