I hate the dentist. I always have. I always will. It probably all started when I first went during kindergarten — I had a month full of cavities, and it took two separate trips to fix everything. I still remember the fear when the anesthesia mask was being placed on my little face, and the terrible smell of the gas as I rather quickly slipped away. And I remember the drunken feeling upon waking after the procedure, my mouth packed with bloody gauze, and my father carrying me back to the car.

I grudginly went back every year through high school, never having to suffer through that experience again, but that didn’t make me like the place any more. Once in college, I saw my chance to avoid the office. Fortunately, I was blessed with good genetics, and my wisdom teeth, a source of much pain and suffering for Jen, grew in normally, so in my mind, I had no reason to visit to see a dentist. It was around this time I formulated my theory (shared by Jen) that the dentist and hygenist, with all their sharp hooks and spears, do more harm than good. With all that picking and scraping, I, without a doubt, believed they were gouging holes in my teeth, in the best interest of their business.

I was convinced a few years out of university to visit the dentist for a check up and cleaning, and since I was little more than a manager of a small time climbing gym, I spent my hard-earned cash to be tortured for an hour. In the end, everything was ok (no cavities), and the dentist said while one wisdom tooth was a bit out of place (it grew in perpendicular to the rest of my teeth, though without pushing against them), it wasn’t anything to worry about, especially since someone else wasn’t footing the bill. I took this as “don’t come back until you’re in blinding pain.”

Eight years later, we live half a block from a dentist. Jen, due to her condition, had to make a visit, so she made an appointment for me as well. I knew I could expect nothing but trouble from this, as several molars had chipped (due to fillings). I tried in vain to convince her to take my place, but to no avail. Off I trudged. The moment I walked in the door, that distinct odor of a dentist’s office — the smell of sterilized equipment in a tight setting — brought all those childhood fears back. I envisioned drills and needles and the gas mask all over again. Soon enough I was in the chair, the sodium light in my eyes, the hygenist ready to strike with her mirror and pick.

Scrape, scrape, pick, pick, scratch, scratch.

“Perhaps you should floss more often.”

Perhaps you should try to not put that pick in my gums every time.

Scrape, scrape, pick, pick, scratch, scratch.

I noticed the fingers on her gloves turning redder and redder, and I could feel the warmth of the blood. As she approached the front of my mouth, the scraping and picking and scratching became more forceful. I expected to see a tooth fly out of my mouth at any moment.

“Almost done.”

This was proceeded by the hygenist placing her foot on my forehead, grabbing her pick with both hands, and pulling up so hard on my bottom teeth that she lifted me from the chair. To add insult to injury, she then flossed my teeth with all the gentleness of an assassin armed with piano wire.

A few minutes later I was spitting out mouthfuls of water mixed with flesh and blood (and tooth gunk), waiting for the dentist to have a look at what remained. I had two chipped molars, and he suggested simple crowns would fix those. He also suggested perhaps we do those immediately, but quickly changed his mind when he saw the carnage from the hygenist. As he talked, I explored my teeth and gums with my tongue, and was shocked to discover there was actually a small channel between my front teeth — apparently this was either covered over in plaque, or the hygenist formed it herself.

A day later, and I can brush my teeth without spitting blood. My gums still hurt, but teeth aren’t as sore, and, better still, I don’t have a headache. The office is going to determine the best course of action for the crowns, given my job switch and all — they will compare and contrast dental plans, if my current plan is better, they’ll rush me back. But then again, on second thought, maybe I don’t need one after all.

Posted on 28 September 2005