True story. At the dentist office recently to get a permanent crown, I lost it. I don’t mean my self-control, I mean the crown. Lost it while it was in my mouth for fitting. It wasn’t swallowed, it popped out and disappeared. Let me explain.
The 45 minute appointment turned into 2 hours. Removing the temporary was an unexpected ordeal; the permanent slipped on like a glove. But it was the wrong shade. So much so that my dentist couldn’t stand it, he wanted me to let him send it back for correction. He left me in the room with a mirror to decide whether I wanted to keep it or get it stained a better color. (How do you match the color of old, partially yellowed teeth that have seen plenty of coffee and tea?)
I leaned back in the chair looking at the crown in the mirror. I got out my phone and found a picture of myself smiling, studied it, and decided I could live with the crown. It felt great. At my age it’s more about function than looks, and besides this tooth wasn’t visible when I smiled.
Satisfied, I took one last look and lightly touched the crown. Which immediately popped off, clinked against the metal clip on my bib, and disappeared. I froze, unable to believe that one tap had dislodged the crown. I gently felt around the bib, the neck of my t-shirt, my sleeve, underneath me in the chair. Nothing. Alone in the room, I reached inside my shirt, felt around. Nothing.
I stepped into the restroom for a private search, shaking out my t-shirt and bra. Nothing. This was crazy. Back to dental chair, passing my dentist on his way to tend another patient who hadn’t lost any parts.
Amanda the hygienist entered the tiny room. I told her what had happened, and she searched the entire room. Sweep the floor, raised and lowered the chair, inspected the countertop. I was trying not to panic at having to pay for another crown. Not to mention feeling like an idiot. There was nowhere else the crown could have gone. Amanda wondered aloud what the dentist would say. I only knew I HAD to find that wandering crown.
Never give up, never surrender. Once more I locked myself in the restroom. T-shirt off. Another shake down. Nothing. Deciding I may as well use the toilet while I was in there, I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my shorts to pull them down. And found, nestled just inside the waistband on the right side, the crown. Seriously? I could understand why it didn’t get stuck in my bra, nothing there to prevent its further descent. But my waistband?
Maintaining a death grip on the little bugger, I dressed and went to find Amanda. I handed her the crown for cleaning, shared a high five, and went back to the chair. The dentist came in to ask what I’d decided. I told him he was right, this crown definitely needed correction.
At the final fitting, the crown was the proper shade. And seated with so much adhesive that its wandering days are over.