A freak fracture of my #18 molar forced me into unplanned oral surgery yesterday, a hair-raising experience heretofore unequaled in my 55 years on this planet. It started when the oral surgeon came in, introduced himself, looked at the X-ray and said, "Well, this won't be easy." (Nothing like instilling confidence in your dentophobic patient.) Then, after shooting me up three times with Novocaine ("What? I'm going to be awake?!? Is the colonoscopy cocktail available?") he proceeded to excise #18 from my jaw. This took 15 minutes of drilling, cutting and yanking so hard, I thought my head would pop off like a champagne cork. After a fitful night's sleep with the weirdest dreams you can imagine, I am recovering today, fighting off flashbacks and looking for an appropriate support group.