It's Only A Paper Rose

This afternoon was my tooth extraction appointment. I did not chicken out and have it done under anaesthesia, although in retrospect, I almost wish I had. Warning for body horror ahead, so maybe skip this one if you're feeling queasy.

I knew in principle that there's not really that much difference between the medieval period and now in terms of tooth-pulling technique. Better sanitation, and better drugs, but ultimately it's still the same process: bash the tooth apart and then pull it out with pliers. Relatively quick, if you get someone who's good at it, but violent and deeply, viscerally unsettling.

Yeah, I knew that, but I can't say as I understood it. Suffice it to say, I understand much better now.

Interestingly, despite my initial protestations about wanting to be put under because tooth stuff seriously bothers me, I was pretty much a model patient: I followed instructions, didn't twitch or make more than the occasional grunt, and was basically completely passive the entire time. It wasn't an enforced passivity, either, where your muscles are quivering from the strain of holding yourself still; I felt downright limp in the chair. I didn't even have to do the yoga-breathing exercises I was planning; I don't think my heart rate was raised more than 20 or 30 BPM the entire time I was there. Afterward, the doctor complimented me on what an easy patient I was. I just sort of stared at him. (In retrospect, I kind of wish I'd quoted Han Solo. "Easy? You call that 'easy'?")

A friend who works directly with trauma victims was able to shed some light on my reaction: My brain is probably abnormally good at producing opoids. It's a survival skill - in a traumatic situation, your body floods itself with whatever chemicals will help it get through. And although I hadn't thought of it in those terms, it fits. The women in my family have a long history of surviving traumatic/difficult circumstances, and I've observed before that my reaction to crisis situations has always been "dissociate, plan, execute", with any emotional responses shunted to the side to be dealt with later. Just, in this case, the plan was "sit here passively and let the dentist get it over with."

But man...when the brain-opoids wore off, the heebie-jeebies came on with a vengeance. My mental soundtrack for the past two hours has basically been variations on aaaaaaaaohgodneedlesandcrunchingandPLIERSjesuschristmytoothaaaaaaaaaaa. And, thanks to the never-ending War on Drugs, I didn't even get any artificial opoids to help take the edge off - just extra-strength ibuprofen. Thanks a lot, Holder.

God I hope I don't ever have to do that again.