“Everything you say to me, Takes me one step closer to the edge"

I listen to her soothing and melodic voice. It’s like a lullaby. I begin to drift off as speaks in a foreign tongue of numbers and medical terms. My eyes bat open and closed. The words have no meaning. I’m nearly numb to my surroundings. But, with an abrupt jolt, I am very much in the moment. I feel it. All of it. Her voice is suddenly muted but the surrounding sounds are on maximum volume. Blares. Blasts. Racket. They mirror the agony within my mouth.

All the words in the English language, and some in Spanish, flood my brain. My hand reaches upward from its position on my lap as the first readily available, and appropriate for a professional setting, word is exclaimed from my already open mouth. “OW!”

“We’re almost done,” she assures me, in her peaceful tone.

I don’t buy it nor does it matter. I experience everything: the moving of instruments, the vibrations of the drills, pokes, prods, and the soreness from keeping my mouth open for the past ninety minutes.

She proves to be right. Within moments, my mouth closes, the chair returns to its upright position, and she informs me of the pain management regimen. I thoroughly disagree about the plan of two over-the-counter pain pills every six to eight hours, but I nod showing comprehension.

She leaves. I stare out the wall-sized window. It’s a gloomy day. Cars exiting the turnpike zoom past. I focus on the greenery and the apartment building across the way. The pain within my mouth pounds, intensifying with each beat.

One technician stands to my left typing notes in the computer program. “Excuse me," I say, wondering how long before my voice shakes and the clichéd flood gates release the tears. "Would you please give me the first dose of Advil sooner rather than later?”

“Oh yes, I’m doing it right now,” she replies with an Eastern European accent.

She’s not. She isn’t. I close my eyes convinced if they stay open, I might start a riot.

Minutes pass at a leisurely pace.

Finally, she circles around me and hands me two oval turquoise pills and a mini cup filled with water. I swallow without hesitation and wait -- like a movie quote from a dramatic period piece, “Afterward, the seven-hundred people in the boats had nothing to, but wait, wait to die, wait to live, wait for an absolution that would never come.”

I slowly get up, grab my purse, and wait for the two technicians to move away from the computer screen, which is blocking my path.

The young woman with the accent asks me, “How do you feel?”

I feel my eyebrows shoot up, the only expression I can show while wearing a mask as if to say in my most melodramatic tone, Are. You. Kidding. Me? Instead, I reply, “I hurt. A lot. You drilled into my mouth. The Novocain wore off before it was done and the Advil hasn’t kicked in yet. Give me another few minutes and I might start crying.”

“Aww,” she answers in a way that is more patronizing than sympathetic. “If you do that, I’ll cry with you.”

I close my eyes, she moves out of the way, and I desperately wish the Advil had super powers.