I enter the quiet office, soft chairs and comforting carpet. The receptionist smiles at me. “Good afternoon!” she says brightly. For a moment my fears are soothed, and I am calm. “You have an appointment at 2:30, yes?” she questions. I nod my head in confirmation. The fear is back. I am afraid to speak, to smile, to show my teeth, to show the plaque and tartar which have accumulated since my last visit. The receptionist points to the back. “First room on the left.” I nod my head in acknowledgement, and walk to the requested area.
The dentist is waiting.
“Hi, have a seat,” she says, gesturing to the chair of torture. I follow her instructions. “It’s been about two years since we’ve seen you, hasn’t it?” she says. “Yes,” I reply shortly. “Well, let’s hope you’ve been brushing, then!” she says. I avoid her gaze, knowing that if she can see my eyes, she will know the truth: I only brush on occasion when I remember to. It’s at this time I notice the tray of torture instruments; sharp, metal hooks that should definitely not go inside a person’s mouth lie upon it. She swings it away, out of my sight.
The x-ray is coming. I remember it from my previous visit. Sure enough, the dentist straps a lead coat onto me thick enough to stop a bullet. “Say ah,” she directs. I do so, and she sticks an object into my mouth at the back of my throat. It activates my gag reflex and I try desperately not to cough it out. After she swivels the machine to the side of my mouth, she leaves the room. I heard a click and a buzz. She repositions the object in my mouth, then does the other side. She takes whatever the thing is out of my mouth, clearly used to the large amount of saliva on the plastic wrapping.
“How’s the rest of your family?” she asks. “They’re doing well,” I answer. The dentist points to the x-rays of my mouth on the laptop beside me. “You have your father’s teeth,” she says. I can only imagine what she does in her spare time - perhaps studying the teeth formations of her victims. “Mmhm,” I mutter. The dentist continues to bustle around, then swivels the tray of torture in front of me. I can already feel her shoving the instruments into my tender mouth.
After positioning the chair so I’m leaning back, the dentist swings the bright, blinding light into my face. It hurts just to look at it, like staring at the sun. “All right, open wide,” I am told. I do so obediently. I close my eyes, shutting out the light, waiting for an excruciating few moments. First, she presses down on each of my teeth in turn, checking for a reaction of pain, I assume. I give none, as I cannot feel my teeth. Then she selects a different tool off her tray. I can feel the scraping against my teeth, as the dentist scratches clear the built up tartar and plaque from my last visit.
And then the pain begins.
I can feel the sharp hook like a knife against my tender gums, poking and clawing and tearing it raw. At first the pain is minimal, in only one area of my mouth. Then she moves on to more teeth, picking away at my tender pink gums. Saliva begins to accumulate in the back of my mouth. I dare not move my tongue, for I am sure that the spit tastes of blood. After a few minutes, the dentist inserts a sort of vacuum nozzle into my mouth, and sprays my tenderized jaw with a few squirts of water. I can feel the blood washing away, but the pain remains, as prevalent as ever. “Close,” the dentists directs. I do so, watching something pink go up into the nozzle. I shut my eyes in horror.
And she continues.
As she does so, I want to scream out in pain. To cry out, to end the suffering! Mouths were not made for this prodding and poking and tearing! Mouths were made for eating delicious food, for speaking words of goodness and mercy, for soft kisses. As the dentist scrapes off more impurities, the pain spreads until my whole jaw is ablaze with it. Moving to my front teeth, she places a gauze pad in front of my teeth. This, I know, means blood in enormous amounts. “You doing okay?” the dentist questions. I cannot give in to this inhumanity. I will not give up as she wants me to. I will not show the pain. I lie, giving a thumbs up. “You’re one tough cookie,” she remarks, beginning the work on my top front teeth.
Fifteen minutes later, it is finished. I sit up, saliva and blood mixing in my mouth. I cannot speak until I spit this horrendous much out of my mouth. Grimacing, I push the mixture into my cheek. “Can I spit this out?” I ask desperately, gesturing to the sink. “Go ahead,” she replies. “There are cups to the right.” I empty my mouth of the gunk, highly disturbed to see my saliva bright, raspberry red. I wash my mouth out 4 times, not satisfied until my spittle turns a nice, pale brown. I turn around, gums still in pain, to see pads saturated with blood upon her torture tray. I shudder in horror.
An hour later, my gums still sore, I reflect on the past incident. Perhaps the dentist had my best interests at heart - or perhaps not. Perhaps I should spend more time brushing my teeth, and definitely more flossing. I may even have to resort to mouthwash if it means avoiding this type of torture. But, as we all know, the lessons of the past are wasted upon the young, and the next morning I completely forget to brush my teeth.
I must be asking for cavities.
