It wasn’t on my bucket list, but . . .

Siblings, July 2016 - my 80th birthday

                 . . . neither was a summer spent attending San Diego State studying piano and singing Orff’s “Carmina Burana” with the Roger Wagner Chorale.               

                . . . neither was a visit to Mammoth Cave when the children were small.

         .       . . . neither was a cross-country driving trip to Disneyland, Four Corners and two national parks.        

                   . . .  neither was a sisters’ trip to Hilton Head with day trips to Savannah, Charleston, and Tybee Island.

                No, an upper, first- molar root canal was never, ever on my agenda. In fact, I didn’t even know what a root canal was. Friends said, oh, yes, they’d had them; they were not bad at all. No residual pain after the anesthetic wore off; nothing to be alarmed about.

                But the mother of all toothaches held me about the face like a lasso being pulled ever tighter. And this was on a weekend! I looked up the website, the email address of my dentist, and left messages. Then I left a similar one on their voice mail. I begged for an emergency visit as soon as possible. The latter message worked. The receptionist called on Monday morning with an early-afternoon opening. I ARRIVED early.

                X-rays showed an abscess.” Yes,” Doc said, “I can pull it, or you can get a root canal. And I don’t do root canals.” I needed that tooth, I thought, so I opted for the latter. After prescribing a round of penicillin and pain meds, he gave instructions on contacting an endodonist and beginning the regimen of meds.

                I slept the rest of the day and, after calling for an appointment in Little Rock, all the next day. By Wednesday, the pain had abated, and I went back to Aleve. “Oh, goody!” I thought. “The pain’s gone; perhaps I can cancel the procedure.” Dumb-da-dumb-dumb! NOT!

                “No, no, no, no! You cancel now, and it’ll come back to bite you worse than ever!” Several folks warned me when I expressed my feelings. In the meantime, the LR doc had a cancellation for the next Monday at noon. Son Eric agreed he’d get me there and back, bless ‘im.

                More good things—some call blessings—happened after arriving. The assistant, older, pretty, with thick, oatmeal-colored hair pulled back in a ponytail, nearly ran ahead of me on the way to a cubicle. I picked up my pace, not wanting her to think I was slow.

                During the ubiquitous x-rays when she asked me to bite down on what felt like the ham bone from Christmas, she talked about her job, how long she’d worked in dentistry, and where she lived. When I called her a youngster, she admitted she was seventy. We hit it off right away.

                After all the prelims were finished, the doctor rumbled in. I looked up into a handsome, hirsute face and stuck out my hand. He shook it, then got busy. Another, closer x-ray, a swab with an anesthetic laid against my gum, then the necessary shot—TWO shots, one on either side of the tooth.

                While that was working, Doc disappeared, and the nurse and I visited more. Her mother died at 92. “Mine died at 93.” She was one of seven children. “I hate to one-up you, but I am the oldest of eight.” On and on, just like we’d been friends for ages.

                Long story short(er), Doc re-entered and ground and ground and ground in my immobilized mouth until he got to the problem and fixed it. He even used a microscope! I guess they all do.

                I paid the piper, uh, the doctor, rode home in numbness and happiness, kissed my son goodbye, and lived happily ever after.

Will our next sisters' trip will be another "bucket list" item checked off?