Columnist John Katsilometes: No kicks on Root Ouch! Ouch!

John Katsilometes' column appears Tuesdays and Sundays. Reach him at 259-2327 or [email protected].

I remember the precise moment: the American Football Conference championship game between the Denver Broncos and New York Jets. I bit down hard on a Doritos chip and ...

Pow!

I let out a yelp, but no one noticed because a New York Jet had just fumbled, the Broncos recovered, and everyone who bet on Denver was also yelping.

That was several months ago, when molar No. 14 first flared up. Unwisely, I hoped the pain would magically vanish through the power of positive thinking and fistfuls of Walgreens ibuprofen. It did subside for a while, but a couple of months ago I felt another pow! while devouring the prime rib special at the Cortez Room at Gold Coast (now there's a plug for ya).

I called my dentist the next day and explained, in excruciating detail, what was happening in my mouth.

"Sounds like a root canal," she said and scheduled an appointment. I went in, and the dentist's assistant immediately took an X-ray of my face.

"Looks like a root canal," she said, summoning the dentist, who showed up carrying a pointed-hook instrument I call the Devil Tool.

I had already explained to everyone at the office -- including the receptionist and two disinterested ladies in the waiting room -- that my tooth was extremely sensitive to the touch. I repeated this to my dentist, a compassionate health care professional who proceeded to poke tooth No. 14 with his Devil Tool.

Pow!

"Looks like a root canal," he said. (For this insight, I paid $72.)

I scheduled a root canal with an endodontist I found in my insurance company's list of providers. Astutely, I chose her over the other endodontist on my company's list because her office is closer to my house. I'm not heading all the way down to Henderson to get tortured, no sir.

The doctor's assistant first explained the details of my surgery. They insist on calling it "surgery" even though "road work" is more applicable. I ignored the assistant's savvy presentation because, frankly, I don't want to know what they're doing in there. It's the same reason I never ask the doctor about "turn your head and cough." Just get it over with and spare me the details.

The doctor soon walked in and had me open my mouth. Then, naturally, she poked me with her Devil Tool.

Pow!

"I wish you guys would stop doing that," I said.

Then I was fitted with a pair of giant goggles "to protect the eyes." What, I'm going to be injured by my own shrapnel? They also stuffed a rubber thing in my mouth with a small opening to fit around my tooth, and I'm happy to say I can go to the grave knowing what a radial tire tastes like.

What followed was two hours of intensive poking, grinding, suctioning and jack-hammering of tooth No. 14. I would not have been surprised to see six construction workers and a scaffold arrive on the scene. And you haven't lived until you've experienced the acrid smell of your own teeth smoking, or had enough medical equipment in your mouth to make it look like Marcus Welby's garage sale.

This all could have been prevented, of course. Whatever your dentist tells you to do -- floss, gargle with bleach, eat toast slathered with pure fluoride -- you do it.

Or else.

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