Invasive

I sailed through the first three plus decades of my life without accumulating a single cavity, a record that fueled delusions of dental grandeur. When my dentist told me a few years ago that the surface of one of my teeth was sticky - a nice way to say decaying - and required a filling, the news crushed my sense of toothy superiority. Part of me had really believed that I'd live cavity-free until 120, despite my propensity for eating sweets.

A few weeks ago this same dentist discovered another sticky spot on a rear, upper left molar. Today I went to get it filled. The room was cold and I was told to keep my coat on. Lying back in the chair, swaddled in my green down jacket, I stared at the dentist and his technician, who looked like a pair of nerdy riot police behind their blue plastic face shields. I tried not to gag as they inserted multiple objects into my mouth. First came a numbing swab of novocaine, followed by three injections of the stuff, not to mention their latex covered fingers. The technician sprayed the inside of my mouth to rinse out the excess from the swabbing.

I was handed a New Yorker magazine to entertain me while the drugs took effect. It was a brief respite before the next oral invasion, during which the dentist inserted the filling and the technician placed a suction tube in my mouth. I must have look stricken or distressed because they kept asking me, "Are you OK?"

"Un huh," I grunted affirmatively, trying to suppress my gag reflex. I wasn't really OK, but I wanted to get the procedure over with as soon as possible, rather than interrupting and prolonging it. Putting my yoga practice to work, I focused my attention on my breath, feeling it rise and fall in my belly. This exercise took my mind off the buzz of activity in my mouth, which normally prefers its privacy and to remain mostly closed.

After what felt like an eternity, but was probably just five minutes, the dentist asked me to bite down and see if it felt right. It didn't - there was too much filling. I braced myself for the next invasion, a whirring tool to remove the excess material.

"Could you lick the tooth and make sure it's not rough?" the dentist asked, wanting me to test his handiwork.

I licked. It was smooth.

"You're all set. We'll see you in six months for your cleaning," he said, leaving the room and leaving me with my second filling and an uncomfortably numb mouth.

"How long will it take for the novocaine to wear off?" I asked the technician. My left cheek and lips felt enormous, as if someone had injected too much collagen.

"Um, just a few hours," she said, with just the slightest hesitation.

"Is that two hours?" I tried to clarify.

"Well, it's a few hours ... but once it starts to wear off it will go quickly," she replied.

It took nearly five hours for the novocaine to dissipate enough that I could eat something. Twelve 12 hours later there is still a slight ache in my gum, a reminder of my dental discombobulation.