Last week I went back to the dentist to pick up my new bite guard. I was assured the appointment would only take a few minutes since all they needed to do was make sure it fit my mouth properly. So Jody and the kids tagged along since a) we want Ava to get more used to the dentist (apparently his hotness does nothing for a 3-year-old) and b) we wanted him to take a quick look at one of Julian’s front teeth that has a yellow spot on it.
I headed back into a room to wait for my bite guard. In the meantime, Jody and the kids went into a room across the hall so that Dr. Hottie could look at Julian’s tooth. Ava decided she wanted to come see what was going on with me, so I helped her up into a chair in my room as she quietly observed.
As soon as I put the bite guard into my mouth, I could tell it didn’t fit right and after inspecting it Hottie concurred. “We’ll have to take another impression,” he said. Crappity crap crap crap, I thought.
Impressions are one of the least desirable things to me in that a) they make me gag and b) they make me feel like I can’t breathe. A normal person would just breathe through their nose while their mouth is crammed full of “cherry-flavored” goo, but I am not normal. ;) I am, as Jody so lovingly calls me, a mouth breather. It’s true. I think that somewhere in my childhood full of allergies and stuffed up noses, I stopped being an obligatory nose breather (because it was plugged up) and switched to being a mouth breather.
So there I sat, with Ava (who was already leery of the dentist) watching me, as well as Jody and Julian who were done in the other room, as I prepared to undergo another impression. I had to put on my happy face and pretend that impressions were da bomb. In other words, I need to be super brave mommy. Shit.
As soon as he put the impression tray into my mouth (the top teeth), I could feel the gunk oozing out the back towards my throat. I tried to remain calm, but it quickly began blocking my airway and (embarrassed as I am to admit this) I started to panic. I made a gagging noise and put my head forward a bit. Dr.
Hottie Evil asked if I was OK and I realized at that point that I needed to start breathing through my nose STAT or I was going to have to rip the tray and goo out of my mouth so that I didn’t die as my children and husband looked on. I know that sounds melodramatic, but it’s seriously how I felt. What fun!
Note to self: never bring the family to the dentist when there’s even the remote chance that an impression might be needed.
I somehow muscled through the two minutes the crap was in my mouth and lived to tell about it. Ava didn’t appear to be scarred by my knee jerk reaction, though Jody gave me a bit of grief over it after the fact.
After Hottie pulled the impression out, he remarked “Wow, that was really far back there” (the goo in my throat). I wanted to say, “No shit, sherlock. Thanks for the newsflash,” but I just sat there quietly. “Where you starting to gag?” I wanted to yell, “No! I couldn’t f’ing breathe!” But I settled for a quiet, “Yes.” And he mumbled, “I’m sorry.”
I guess the lesson learned here is that if (God help me) I ever have to have an impression done again, I know to start breathing through my nose from the get-go. However, I’m crossing my fingers, praying and hoping that I’ll never have to have another impression again. I’ll find out next week when I go back to see if this new bite guard fits. Gulp. Think positive thoughts for me.