This molar, the one in the last row of the orchestra, on the left, at some point cracked and got infected. I had been living with it, tolerably, for a year and a half, but finally it started heading south. Chewing, which as dining editor is for me a professional responsibility, became dicey. Steak, crunchy things–they got chewed on the other side. It was me or my molar–my mouth wasn’t big enough for the both of us. One had to go.
The go-to guy in Montclair for oral surgery is Dr. Gerard Mirkov. Seat him at a piano in a tux and he would bring to mind Harry Connick Jr and Michael Feinstein. Situate him under a basket and you could swear you’ve got your point guard. His chairside manner is the best, and he knows how to tickle the ivories, though it does take quite a lot of novocaine.
Anyway, once he finished sliding long needles into my gums, which did cause me to wiggle my toes a bit, he announced, "The worst is over." And sure enough, he was right. The procedure took five minutes at most.
First I had to sit for about 20 minutes until the 10 gallons of novocaine in my jaw road-blocked all the nerves leading to the problem tooth. Unfortunately, I didn’t have my regular camera with me, but I did have my trusty iPhone. And while you’ll see that the resolution leaves something to be desired, taking pictures from my comfy perch in the big chair kept me amused until it was time for the main event.
No laughing gas, by the way. For the doctor and his staff, NO2 is the equivalent of secondary smoke. Makes them nauseous and woozy if inhaled day after day.
So I toughed it out. Having a big fat tingly lip is kind of an interesting sensation, actually. When I left the office, I was biting down on a fat wad of gauze to stanch any post-operative ooze. So for the rest of the day, I felt like Popeye. And I could swear I even developed little sausage-shaped knobs on the back of my elbows.