A fill in time

This call is urgent. You have to take it or go hungry. You find yourself sitting in the waiting room with butterflies in the stomach. The other long faces sitting around add to the somber mood. No one has an inclination to smile and sit drawn over their problems. Your name is called and you are motioned to the "execution" chair.
This visit-to-a-dentist mood that crops up every 2/3 years scares me to no end.
The ordeal has just begun. The doc with his array of instruments taps (hits) all your teeth to find the problematic area. I sit with the feeling of "How many pass and how many fail?" before verdict is given.
The doc announces that he will have to drill a bit to ascertain the depth of the damage. This is the most dreaded part of it. As the dreary drilling continues, the drill grazes the sensitive root or whatever there; and the intensity of the pain surge that goes from the tooth to the brain is to be experienced to be believed.
I scream; the drill stops awhile. The doc tries to offer some consolation. Hopelessly helpless I ask the doc in a childlike manner, "Will it pain a lot now?
(forgetting that 'a lot' might mean different to different people). Is the damage severe enough for a r..o..o....t - c..a....n.a..l ?"
I have had my share of this canal thing once and the memories still haunt me. The doc decides to settle in for a filling (and test my nerve; literally) and wait for a few weeks to determine whether a root-canal was needed.
The dentists not only drill a hole in your teeth but also a big one in your pocket. How I wish God had a better design for teeth; maybe ones with insensitive roots?
As I step out, the post-visit resolution list runs through my head: - no eating between meals, avoid chocolates, blah…blah... and yes .. A fill in time might really save nine, though not thirty-two.