The staff at my dental clinic hum, "Crown her with many crowns," whenever they see me coming. I swear it. My mouth's childhood pastime of accumulating massive amalgam fillings has evolved into a more mature collecting of root canals and crowns.
I got crowned again recently. I took notes. "Are you okay?" the dentist asks.
I'm frozen to my eyeballs, flat on my back, and fixated on the blank ceiling. He's holding a drill, and intends to use at high speeds in a dark space uncomfortably close to my brain. Beside him, neatly arranged on a paper-lined steel tray, are hooks, tweezers, prods, pries, and myriad other threatening metal objects - all destined for forceful use in my open, rubber-dammed mouth.
Never been better.
The dentist drills awhile, then turns me over to his assistant. "Are you comfortable? Is this pillow okay?" she asks. I grunt. She picks up a sharp tool and proceeds. I feel the pressure of her hand, but no pain. Thank you, Jesus.
She probes a bit, then shoves hard on something unyielding. I hear a click and feel my rubber dam slipping. Broken fragments of my clove-flavoured temporary filling shoot through the crack into the back of my throat. I try clearing it. My gurgles sound like that of a strangling victim.
I am, in fact, choking. I try to indicate such by a conservative flailing. The technician pauses, then picks up another metal object on a long hose. "Would you like a rinse?"
I answer with my usual rubber-dam eloquence. "Uhhnna burugtlle!"
She hands me a tissue, removes the dam, and aims the metal water spigot at the back of my throat. But she suctions the water back up before it reaches the chips. I swallow them.
They build crowns in-house at my dental clinic. The technician designs mine on the computer near my chair. A three-dimensional image of my tooth rotates on the monitor. She manipulates it with the concentration of an artist. Then she gets up, leaves, and returns immediately with another technician.
Colour samples in hand, they hover over my personal crater. "M1, or M2? What'd'ya think?"
"Hmm, the teeth look a little more grey back there, so maybe we should go with M2. M1 is a little too yellow...."
I'm paying for this by the minute. I can imagine what I please. I fantasize that I'm royalty, and the technicians, my wardrobe mistresses.
An hour later, I walk out, my new (more-gray-than-yellow) crown nicely cemented in place.
Christian scriptures speak of a different kind of crowns - God-given, heaven-presented rewards for God-lovers, who, during their lives, allowed his benevolent directorship in remarkable ways.
But unlike my dental fixture, their owners won't keep those crowns. They'll use them to "crown with many crowns" the one who deserves them most: God's son, Jesus Christ. Because sharing heaven with the Lord of all, who loves and makes them royal by adoption, will be reward enough.
And no rubber dams. I can't wait.
