Saturday morning, I went to the dentist. I was finally getting around to having that chipped tooth repaired. I got the old-school gold crown back in the late 1980s and it gave way last April. It had hung in there for more than 25 years, so I can't complain, and there was no discomfort, so I considered myself lucky.
So does my dentist. He couldn't believe that I wasn't in excruciating pain. As he popped off the crown and cleaned around the rather massive hole (it was a molar), he was amazed I didn't require anesthetic and kept telling me how brave I was. I wasn't brave. I truly felt little if anything. He says the tooth isn't dead, but the nerves must have retracted. He needed to screw in a trio of tiny pins to add strength first to the temporary filling and then for the new crown. Now for that procedure, I requested and got Novocaine.
He did all this in less than an hour. His office is conveniently located and offers a pleasant view of the park. I believe him that he doesn't do any unnecessary procedures, and his techniques and equipment are more modern than those used at the dental office I'd been going to for decades.
I don't like him, though. He makes lots of jokes, presumably to put me at ease, but I don't enjoy them. And this is going to be expensive. We didn't talk about the cost because, what the hell, it has to be done and I have insurance. I wouldn't be surprised if this didn't end up costing me about $800, and I'd be lying if I said that didn't make me wince (perhaps more than the procedure).
Blah. At least it's getting fixed!
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