Remember before my Death by Drilling appointment the dentist gave me a pill to take at home? To start the sedation “process.” “Take it at seven a.m.,” he said, “and we’ll see you at eight.” D-Day arrives. I pop the pill and settle on the couch to wait for my demise. Turn on the TV to keep me company. First fifteen minutes I feel fine. Next fifteen minutes, the same. At seven fifty-five, my designated driver, Tricia, will arrive to ferry me the whole two blocks to the dentist’s deadly domain. Suddenly, I am feeling . . . strange. Out the front window I see Tricia’s car pull up to the curb. She toots her horn. I get up and head for the door. The wall moves — right in front of me. I bounce off and shake my head hard. Outside, the porch has turned into a shifting sea. I stumble down my three steps like a drunken sailor. Tricia helps me into her car. “You okay?” “Yeeahhh.” I bare all my teeth in a smile. As we pull up to the dentist’s office, Miss Chipper receptionist is out the door before I can even fall from Tricia’s car.
