Lyfting Me Up

Okay, let me begin by saying I actually enjoy going to the dentist.

One of the challenges of moving to a new community is reconnecting all the pieces of life—from finding a dry cleaner to choosing a primary care doctor. The dentist was a little harder because I had been spoiled in the San Luis Valley. My dentist there was not only excellent but also a good friend and church member. Eventually, though, a 250-mile drive each way for a dental appointment became a bit much.

Thankfully, MK found our current dentist. I’ll leave her unnamed, but she is wonderful. Every time I walk into the office I’m greeted like an old friend by the entire staff. There is only one drawback. Since moving to Arvada, the 24-mile commute to Cherry Creek means driving I-70, I-25, and Colorado Boulevard. Trust me—that’s worse than a root canal.

Somewhere during my last epic journey a crown broke off. When I got home, my dentist took one look and said, “It’s time for a bridge.”

I’ll spare those of you who are a little squeamish the details. The procedure involved extracting the remaining root and fitting me with a temporary bridge. It turned out to be much more complicated than anyone expected. Nearly three hours later, as much as I enjoy my dentist, the assistant, and the whole crew…it still wasn’t much fun.

Before I left she gently asked, “Do you take pain medication?” We decided to have a prescription available just in case, although I hoped Tylenol would do the trick.

For the first three days I thought I had dodged the pain.

Too soon.

Three days later it came roaring back.

I come from the John Wayne School of Medicine: tough it out and it’ll go away.

It didn’t.

On Friday I finally called the office. My dentist was off that day, but her backup could see me. MK assured me she had seen him before and really liked him.

She was right.

I’ve always wondered what medical professionals are thinking when they hum and haw while they’re examining you. He carefully flushed out the empty tooth socket and then began probing with instruments that looked like they came straight from Little Shop of Horrors.

Finally he said, “I’m going to put a tiny sponge soaked with clove oil into the socket.”

My imagination immediately wandered to places I won’t mention. I almost asked, “And after that…an eye of newt?”

He smiled and said, “Give it just a few minutes. The pain should disappear.”

The first thing I noticed was the taste. It reminded me of Beech-Nut gum.

The second thing I noticed was even better.

He was right.

Before I even reached my car, the pain was gone.

Two days later I can still taste the faint hint of clove.

As I was leaving he said, “If you need another round, just come back and we’ll reload it.”

Honestly, I almost wanted to return just for the fun of saying, “Reload me.”

He explained that clove oil has been used for centuries to ease tooth pain. Sure enough, when I checked afterward, every AI source I consulted agreed. It’s an old remedy that still has a place.

My permanent bridge should be ready in about two weeks.

And yes, I’m actually looking forward to seeing my dentist and her crew again.

It’s funny how people who are exceptionally good at what they do—and who genuinely care about the people sitting in their chairs—can make even a trip to the dentist feel a little like visiting friends.

Onward and Upward,

Mark