I was more than a little apprehensive on the morning of my extraction, to the point where I began to wish she had just pulled one or both of my teeth out last time I had visited, so that I didn’t have a week to think about it.

Between the first appointment and this one I had told The Girlfriend© about the possibility of being knocked out for the procedure, because I didn’t want to have to deal with the pain. I thought it was a pretty good idea, but she steamrolled over it so quickly that I figured she must have been on commission from the local anaesthetic supplier.

So, my mouth but seemingly her decision. Anyway, passive aggressive thoughts aside…

I accepted a needle to numb the offending area. One jab on the outside of the gum, and one on the inside. Not confident that the drug was going to take, I asked for a third injection, and the dentist was quick to oblige.

She gave me a pair of uber-cool glasses to protect my eyes from the copious amount of blood that was always a possibility, but she need not have bothered because I had them closed for the entire procedure.

It seemed to take forever for the tooth to come out, so long in fact that a few minutes in (once the fear had reestablished itself) I considered telling the dentist to stop – I was just going to keep the thing in my head after all.

But alas, I let her carry on… until I heard it snap. I’m sure it wasn’t nearly as loud as I thought it was, in the moment, but listening to someone wrench a tooth from your jaw is up there as one of the most unpleasant sounds you’ll ever hear.

After it was out she told me it had quite a lengthy root and asked if I wanted to see it. I guess they call that dental humour. No, I don’t want to see it! Throw it in the bin, take back these stupid glasses, and let me open my eyes!

Hopefully she disposed of it, but you can never tell with these maestros of the mouth… perhaps she has a collection mounted on her wall, of all the rotten and broken chompers she has yanked out over the years.

… to be continued…