The Ache

Always get a second opinion.

The long and short of my predicament was that I had a terrible dentist. Dr. Schaffer was a kind, older man that certainly appeared to know what he was talking about, but when my upper left molar started to pound and throb with pain, I knew that I had been right when I told him my filling had failed. It wasn't a soft spot. My cavity was back, and damn him; he'd told me not to worry about a year ago. How bad was it now, I wondered? Would I lose my tooth? I was furious upon learning the new diagnosis from Dr. Roberts: irreversible pulpitis. One of my worst fears had been realized. I would need a dreaded root canal if I wanted to keep my tooth.

I had heard from friends and family that root canals were a waste of money. My mother cautioned against the procedure, saying, "Two months later they had to pull it anyway. They got over four grand out of me when it was all said and done!" I ignored her. I had good dental insurance - full coverage, in fact, so that the surgery would cost me nothing. And if I ended up losing the tooth anyway, that would be covered too. I figured that I might as well try to keep my molar, right? Scheduling my surgery was difficult. Oral surgeons are in high demand; it seems, and the only one in my town was booked up until next month. The drawback of my insurance was that he was also the only surgeon in a fifty-mile radius that accepted my plan.

I had no choice but to bear with the pain for about thirty-four days. It was not the ideal solution, for certain. Clove Oil became liquid gold for me, and pain pills were passing my lips like candy. At around the fifteen-day mark, none of these things were working for me anymore. My tooth throbbed continuously as if it had its own pulse, and the area around it felt hot. Chewing on the left side of my jaw was not possible. I called the surgeon's office begging to be bumped to an earlier appointment, but that meant that my visit would have been classified as an emergency; which is where my insurance plan probably made all of its money because it covered less under those circumstances.

I held out for a little over a week before calling them back and admitting that I was in need of an emergency surgery. At that point, my tooth hurt so badly that I just wanted them to rip it out of my jaw and be done with it. I couldn't bear the thought of a root canal not fixing it, and from the way the swelling felt, my tooth was likely infected anyway. I couldn't even close my jaw entirely without pain shooting through my head. I was miserable. When the nurse came in with Vicodin, she was the most important person in the world to me. Once the drug began to affect me, and I was quite out of it, they began to prep me for an extraction.

After this, I don't remember much up until the moment of removal. My memory blurs a little bit. I see the light overhead, I can remember the surgeon talking to his tech, and then I black out. The next thing I remember still has not left me. There was an intense pressure in my tooth. It almost felt like I was biting down too hard, but my jaw was open, so that couldn't have been what was happening. My surgeon remarked something about the state of my tooth as he was trying to wiggle and wrench it from the socket; something about how it actually seemed healthy, but he suspected that it was my gums that were infected. The rest happened so fast.

I heard a loud pop and something hit my tongue. I could barely feel it due to all the Novocain, but I knew something had come free. A warmth spread into my mouth, and the surgeon urgently called for suction. He cursed under his breath and removed the object: it was my tooth. He adjusted the light and peered into my mouth for all but a moment before jerking back in shock. He called for a different tool that resembled an enormous pair of tweezers and went into my mouth again. I was still too loopy to ask verbally what was going on, but my mind was racing about as fast as my heart was. The Vicodin was wearing off as a result of my adrenaline rush, and the concern on my face was visible.

I swear I heard my surgeon gag a little bit. I felt the enormous pressure in my jaw disappear as he drew his hand away. Clamped between the tweezers was a fat, brown, wriggling grub. I remember wanting to scream, but all that came out was panicked wheezing. Things go black again after that. I woke up in the recovery room surrounded by the medical team. They ask me what I had eaten in the last few months. I told them I was an adventurous eater and enjoy trying vegetables and other foods that come from all over the world. I even have a subscription to one of those services that sends you a box of food from other countries. The thing that was inside my gums was a botfly larvae, I was told, and the standing theory is that I did not properly wash off one of the many imported vegetables and roots that I eat daily. Some botfly species lay their eggs in soil. My surgeon thinks that an egg became wedged inside my gumline and the life cycle began.

I pretty much deep-clean my vegetables, now.