The Dentist

I want to share something with you. It’s not something I’m particularly proud of, nor do I often discuss it. But I feel the need to come clean, and I appreciate you letting me confess my dirty little secret. Please be kind when you judge me, as I am only human, and susceptible to the frailties intrinsic to that strange state of being.

I don’t like going to the dentist.

I know what you’re going to say : “But Andy, that industrial strength food processor you call a mouth can only handle a daily regimen of Arby’s when those once-pearly whites are strong enough to chew the gristle! Without regular cleanings and checkups, your intricately designed implements of gluttony will start to fall out, rendering your bite ineffective when squaring off against a sleeve of Pringles. If you want your blood profile to remain high in red meat and carbohydrates, you must commit to a practice of oral hygiene that includes regular visits to the guy with all the sharp tools.”

Took the words right out of your mouth, didn’t I? Speaking of mouths, I prefer to keep mine full of teeth and devoid of a stranger’s fingers. And really that’s what the dentist is all about : some guy’s fingers in my mouth, a couple knuckles deep, prying and prodding, while my tongue bobs and weaves, trying to avoid the sterile, bland taste of latex. Sometimes I swear he’s crammed the entire hand in there, possibly up to the wrist. Is he trying to massage my larynx or prime the gag reflex? Where does his area of expertise end, and how do I stop him when he’s crossed the line? I would complain, but it’s tough to make a point when I sound like Kenny from South Park.

It’s the invasion of personal space I don’t care for. Once in the chair, I know all socially mandated rules of interpersonal engagement have been left behind in the waiting room. But the guy acts like donning a thin pair of gloves makes it okay for him to invade an area I have always reserved for some of the more intimate moments of my life. And he does it without first performing any of the typical preambles, such as making introductions, or engaging in small talk … or buying me dinner.

Once the barrier has been breached, there is no turning back. It’s too late to ease out of the chair, mumbling, “I think I left my wallet in the car … ” I’m stuck there until he tires of the pit of despair I call my mouth, and he moves on to the next patient. The second he’s done, I’m off like a scared rabbit, but not before I do the walk of shame past the receptionist and through the waiting area. Under the fearful, yet knowing gaze of the other patients, I think, “Your time is short. He may smile at first, but he’ll get what he wants. And you won’t be able to stop him.”

I’m not sure why I’m so quick to bend to his authoritarian rule. Lying inert in the chair, mouth shamelessly agape like a baby bird waiting for a worm, I dare not move, hoping some randomly passing hygienist will wipe away the drool and debris strewn across my cheeks. I think my complacency kicks in automatically at the sight of a spiffy lab coat, which is always backed by a fancy degree on the wall that nobody can read (it might be Latin, but who can tell?), and a handy wastebasket where I am encouraged to dispose of my freewill. Or it might be due to the astringent smell of antiseptics that hits me when I walk in, making me a little woozy, but assuring me that this guy is a professional who follows every precaution … except for the occasional acrid puff of smoking enamel - oops! Maybe it’s the overall hushed tone of the office that lulls me into obedience, a confident, low murmur, that is broken only by the high-pitched scream of a drill piercing the air, along with the intermittent whining of patients … or the intermittent whining of a drill piercing a patient, along with their high pitched scream.

Perhaps that’s why, once I’ve been seated, the dentist seems intent on physically restraining me. Even when he turns away, he'll maintain contact, casually hooking one finger over the lower incisors and letting his forearm dangle, like a grappling hook and chain, which, incidentally, is the preferred assault gear of any knowledgeable Viking or Hun. Whether he leans away to look at an x-ray or to grab that hook thing he uses when I’m getting too fidgety and I need a reminder of who’s in charge, he won’t let me out of his grasp for a second. His touch is constant, as is the reminder that I am a mere bystander to this operation, having one duty : to open and close my mouth, as per his directives. I am the debilitated gatekeeper of a castle under siege.

How would this scenario play out if it occurred anywhere other than at the dentist? If some random guy at the grocery store said, “Hey, c’mere a minute,” and proceeded to finger assault me? Would I call a cop or remain docile, like a trained greyhound? The dentist, having spied my discarded freewill in the trash, knows my intentions are to do as I’m told, but maybe he keeps holding me down just in case I panic and bolt. (“Now we have you and you’ll NEVER get away! Bwah ha ha ha haaaaaahhhhh!”) He needn’t worry. While it’s true that I want to get this over as soon as possible and get back to ignoring my teeth for another six or eight or twelve months - depending on the current state of my insurance - I will control my emotions and stay seated for the entire procedure, without his “encouragement.” I’m not leaving until either he finishes or the novocaine wears off. Whichever comes first.

And while we’re on the subject of novocaine, why is it that the application of this little “miracle drug” is almost as painful as the procedure it’s supposed to numb? It’s like a trade off : would you rather feel the bones in your skull be cracked and broken or the flesh inside your mouth be repeatedly harpooned? Neither option is particularly enticing, but I’m more inclined to endure the relentless stabbing, because I once had a dentist skip the novacaine completely. He said the cavity was so shallow, he would miss the root by a mile and I wouldn’t feel anything. Well, he didn’t and I did. It was the most intense searing agony I have ever experienced, and, although it was over in probably a nanosecond, it still haunts me to this day.

In his hand, I see a syringe the size of a blender, and I think, “Is he going to jab me with it or hit me over the head?” Before applying the behavioral-modification juice, he always says something funny, like, “You’ll feel a little pinch,” but now I know how the bull in the arena feels at the end of the fight, decorated with those two-foot-long, spangled knives. He always follows his first quip with, “You’re doing great,” when all I’m doing is barely resisting the urge to beg for mercy. I can’t speak when my tongue is hiding in the back of my throat, trying to avoid the foul taste of excess serum filling my mouth. Can’t they add some flavor to that stuff? Cool ranch, maybe, or grape bubblegum.

Once I’ve been dosed into complacency, I settle in for a long wait. I bide my time by biting my lip, which, thanks to the novocaine, now seems to be a foreign object in my mouth, possibly a dog’s chew toy. The only tactile sensation my brain receives is from the teeth that prod the unknown visitor, and it commands them to burrow deeper, unable to fully grasp how this apparent trespasser is actually connected to the rest of me. Plus, the lip is right there, easily accessible, and there’s nothing else to do until the hygienist takes a break from huffing laughing gas to examine me, then usher me down the hall to get my lip sewn back on. No worries about the extra time that takes - the dentist has his hands full prepping other patients for their “procedures.”

Back in the chair, I find another handy time killer is trying to identify the insidious uses for each of the torture devices laid out on the table next to me. They can't be missed, sparkling enticingly, all clean and shiny, under lights that are only slightly less intense than the one they will point into my eyes when they lean me back in the chair. As if pinned under the noonday sun in Ecuador, my eyelids are no match for the retina-searing rays of this space-age laser. Offered as a slight deterrent from the onset of permanent visual impairment, a pair of Arctic explorer’s glacier goggles are placed over my eyes. These things have sat on dozens of greasy, unwashed faces, their smeared lenses bearing the fingerprints of every flailing patient before me … I think I’ll just try squinching my eyes shut real tight.

I’ve often wondered why those small implements of terror are laid out beforehand, in anticipation of my arrival. Perhaps the familiar display helps trigger the dentist’s previous mental notes like, “Oh yeah, I really wanted to use Mr. Scratchy on this guy!” I can almost feel the disappointment when he can’t use them all, although having them close at hand certainly encourages him to try, thinking “Just one more poke and then I’ll let him stumble on out of here.” The message, though unspoken, could not be more clear : “If you can see ‘em, I’m gonna use ‘em.” Not all evil intentions are born in the dark.

The Barcalounger on which I writhe was the big ticket item at Hannibal Lector’s garage sale. It’s missing the restraints favored by its former owner, but the application of novacaine as a strategy to discourage patient resistance has many aspects similar to traditional torture : anticipation of pain, repetition of pain, extended application of pain, screaming … really it’s got it all, so there is a nice symmetry in the chair’s transition of ownership.

If I had followed the recommended plan for self-care between visits, my time at the dentist would likely be a lot less trying. But there are so many rules! And despite the fact that my teeth are a primary participant in one of my favorite activities, oral care is probably the first obligation I’m likely to ignore on any given day, followed closely by exercise, and home improvement projects.

Rule number one is to start the whole ordeal by flossing, which entails the scattering of last night’s blueberry skins and beef tendrils, until my bathroom mirror is as spotted and flecked as when I was an acne-riddled teenager. Next up is brushing, where I decorate any remaining clean surfaces with frothy toothpaste globules, spewing them like a rabid dog. And finally it’s time to rinse with acid - I mean, mouthwash - holding it in while swishing the molten broth around until I think my cheeks might melt and my tongue feels like I’ve been licking nine-volt batteries. And they want me to do this entire process AT LEAST twice a day! Better yet, after every meal or snack! Let me tell you, I do not have the time to perform this painstaking ritual twelve to sixteen times a day. Of course, if I committed to it, I might be encouraged to eat less, thereby losing some weight. Two birds! But I’m not likely to do either.

Most of the dentists I’ve had over the years have had a pretty good bedside - chairside? - manner, with the key trait being overt kindness. I guess before they put their fingers in jeopardy, they want to dispense with any animosity that still lingers from previous visits. I knew a guy who trained chimpanzees to perform in television commercials. These creatures are notoriously ornery, at least to someone who whacks them with a stick when they misbehave while the cameras are rolling, and they had bitten off pieces of several of the guy’s fingers over the years. As a strategy for obtaining improved working conditions, the chimps' protests were no less civilized than those favored by union labor organizers.

I’ve never had a dentist who met a fate similar to the chimp wrangler’s. I wonder if freshman year of dentistry school offers a “digit retention” class, perhaps followed by “Breath Mints 101 : Not Just for Patients.” Unfortunately, I once had a dentist who apparently failed that class, which I would have thought would be an easy “A.” Despite his chronic halitosis - and trust me, it was pungent - he still managed to whisk the hygienist off her feet when he left to start his own practice, landing her by his side. Ah, young love! All the sterile gauze in the office couldn't extinguish the scorching passion that blazed among the dental plates.

I actually don't think my teeth are that bad, considering how long I’ve been using them, and the myriad of unfriendly surfaces to which they have been applied : beer bottle caps, those plastic straps that hold a bundle of new socks together, Skittles … If I hadn’t been applying at least a little effort all these years, I would have nothing but gaps, whittled stumps, and shards haphazardly decorating a sad landscape of gum tissue. In fact, many of my teeth are fully intact. Well, some are : there’s that one molar on the lower left, the upper canine on the same side, and a couple more way in the back, toward the throat. This is why I keep my lips sealed when I smile for the camera. I’ve always claimed it’s because I look goofy when I try to flash some teeth, but the fact is, whenever I wear a big-tooth grin, the inevitable question is, “Did you ever play hockey?”

When I finally leave the office, the timer has already started, ticking down the minutes until the drugs wear off. It’s not always critical, but I don’t want a searing bolt of agony to slice through my cranium when I’m trying to merge in traffic. So I strap on the seatbelt and hit the gas, still woozy from my ordeal and ill prepared to drive, but racing to get home before things get even worse.

I drive away with little to show for my efforts except a couple more silver blotches on an ever-shrinking, ever-weakening array of once-proud sentinels in white. Sitting on the passenger seat is my gift bag, containing a cheap new toothbrush, which I’ll use to clean under my fingernails, and a travel size toothpaste and floss, which will sit on the kitchen counter, get moved to the junk drawer, and finally be thrown out when the drawer gets overfilled and stuck in the open position. I never get something really cool, like a care-package of mood-enhancing painkillers to ease me on down the road, and lessen any embarrassment I suffer from spitting and dribbling whenever I drink or speak for the rest of the afternoon. As parting gifts go, it doesn't give me much incentive to return for more festivities. No wonder it takes me so long to go back.

I guess I’ll just head home and sleep it off.