For about the past 15 years, some of my old sportswriting cronies and I have kept up an email group that we call the Party Line. Party implies fun, but that isn’t the case here. Mostly the Party Line consists of cynical, wholly inappropriate observations about ourselves, the people we know and the world at large. It’s a great way to blow off steam.
Today I need to blow off steam. I type out a flurry of Party Line dispatches, including:
• 8:08 a.m.: “I may have to get a root canal today. I’m petrified.”
• 8:09 a.m.: “There’s only one thing I hate more than doctors: dentists.”
• 8:10 a.m.: “They use tools on your face that you’d find at Home Depot.”
• 8:11 a.m.: “And the needle they use to numb your mouth is, like, 42 inches long.”
• 8:12 a.m.: “Swing low, sweet chariot. Comin’ for to carry me home. Swing low, sweet chariot. Comin’ for to carry me home.”
• 8:17 a.m.: “No two ways about it: I’m doomed.”
• 8:18 a.m.: “They’ll carry me out of there in a body bag.”
I manage to focus for a while on the freelance assignments that have been suffering all week from my various distractions. And then:
• 9:52 a.m.: “Look, I’m a dead man walking, and everyone knows it.”
There’s more focusing. And then:
• 12:49 p.m.: “In 81 minutes, I shall be walking the plank.”
• 12:50 p.m.: “Don’t cry for me, Argentina.”
• 1:41 p.m.: “I’m off. Live well, brothers. Live well.”
They think I’m joking. I guess I am…sort of.
When the moment of truth arrives, I slide into the dentist’s chair. We’ll call him Dr. Smashmouth. He pulls out something resembling a javelin and says, “This shot will sting a little, but after that, you won’t feel a thing.”
Dr. Smashmouth tells me about his passion for fantasy football while we wait for the Novocain to take effect, and I pretend to care. With one eye on the wildly gesticulating Dr. Smashmouth and the other on my iPhone, I send a text to the Party Line: “Am in the chair.”
One of my Party Line cohorts responds: “Bill is now texting from the dentist’s. What kind of chickenshit root canal is this?”
Dr. Smashmouth is right: I feel nothing once the drilling begins. Unfortunately, he didn’t numb my eardrums, too. In addition to the evil whirr of the drill, I hear his periodic sighs as pieces of my decayed tooth fly out of my mouth.
“I’m all the way down into the nerve,” Dr. Smashmouth says anxiously to his assistant.
Even though I can’t feel a thing, I know this can’t be good. During a break in the action, I send out more Party Line texts:
• “Am on a gurney.”
• “Body parts are everywhere.”
Okay, those last two texts are a bit, but the fact is, the outlook isn’t pretty. Dr. Smashmouth fits me with a temporary crown until the permanent one is ready in a couple weeks and says, “You’re probably going to need a root canal. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe in a couple weeks. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
“How will I know?” I ask.
“You’ll know,” he answers ominously.
I send one final text to the Party Line: “I see a light. It’s glorious.”
Someone responds: “Go to it, Billy. Just go.”
Instead, I go home and wait. The good news is, I’m not overcome by pain when the numbness fades. Still, I know I’m not home free yet—my bum tooth could take a turn for the worse at any time.
And there’s this: Fluffy is scheduled to return to the vet tomorrow for X-rays of his bladder. Who knows what they will reveal?
(A note from the management: It occurs to me that this entry had nothing to do with looking for a job, doing freelance work, or anything else that’s career-related. Oh well. At least it fit within the “quest to stay sane” part of my blog’s theme.)
After reading your note, I think this blog is very relevent because you can't concentrate or be productive if your tooth hurts. It's also very relevent to frame of mind. Unfortunately, I've been in your dental situation quite a few times. Be careful what you eat because temporary crown really means "temporary." You will know if something goes wrong because it will hurt like a B$&@$!
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