The Dentist

Today was the worst day to visit The Dentist. By now, I am used to sitting in the straight chair with a plastic head cap, on my back with my mouth pried open for hours. I am used to the jutting of the jaws, the unexpected, intense bursts of air, the high squeal of drill spraying enamel throughout my mouth. But today was just not the day.

I have to admit that even while I am sitting patiently in a chair, a baby bib on my chest, legs crossed with a good book for 45 minutes, I still am thinking this is better than being in my stuffy office with stuffy people. For that I am grateful. My dentist is great, a friend referred by a friend sort of thing. He can't be sweeter, allowing me not to pay my lousy $50 a month for the eight months of work he has done so far. Half my mouth has actually been restored to looking like natural teeth, instead of telling all my secrets with metal fillings. He is great, and the assistant that used to be assigned to me was great. But she has recently been replaced with a new dental hygienist, Rosa.

Rosa is a nice enough lady, but she is not very sensitive. I have to chalk it up to her Spanish background. It isn't like she was born in America and learned from the beginning to dance carefully around things. Instead, she treats my mouth like a bean bag, clashing that long metal object against my teeth. (Easy lady, I know they're not pretty, but they work for me!)

The doctor arrives and I watch as the hygienist and he do a little dance around my chair in the small room. Finally, they find my ex-rays (filed under O', which apparently goes to the end of the "O"s in the filing system), and begin administering the novocaine. This seems to take longer than usual, and finally Dr. pulls out the needle and mentions something about not wanting to hit a vein and numb my entire body. Good call, doc. Let's try again.

Twenty minutes later the entire right side of my face has swelled up like a blowfish, and they begin with the tools. "If you feel anything at all, let me know immediately," he says as three fingers are shoved in my throat, holding four different objects. I try to gesture like I understand. It doesn't take long before I have to give into the sawing off of enamel, apparent that more drugs were needed. Another dose of novocaine does the trick.

At this time, I have sat in this chair six times before thinking I needed a stress ball to save my hands from clenching together. Today, I finally mentioned this to him. Apparently, I'm not keeping things to myself anymore. "My, what balls you have grown lately," my conscience says to my brain. Well, he thought it was a good idea.


Anyway, I impressed myself during the sawing and drilling bit by recalling each name of the tools they were placing in my mouth and the function it was used for. I was impressed as I recognized the calls:

explorer, please
the pick?
scraper-
suction (large and small) aka: air!
water

(funny, I know there are more...)

Like I mentioned, I visit the dentist about as much as most people should see a therapist. I feel like we have become friends. In fact, I've already added him to the Christmas list. But today, I just wasn't up for being a dental champ, contortioned into various uncomfortable positions, with numerous metal objects hanging out at the same time, jamming about my bite. I really could have gone without my mouth getting needled and assaulted for two hours, and I certainly didn't need the brain numb so early in the morning.

I spent the time with my eyes closed, feeling like a construction zone is happening between my teeth. I think of things like good food, reflect on memories the music has spurred, recall recent sensual experiences, and am immediately pulled back into life with a deafening, rocky, insect sound.

Finally, the mouth bridge is taken out and my jaw is allowed to relax. The doctor gently rubs the joints in my jaw with his condom smelling latex gloves and pats my cheek. Today he was distracted by loosing his dog and forgets to even tell me what the next procedure is or good-bye. All I am left with is Rosa telling me not to move because all the blood needs to rush back through my body and handing me a Q-tip with massive amounts of baby powdered vaseline to apply to my lips. I can only feel the left corner, so I as I apply I hope I am not spreading it all over my face.

I am guided to the front desk, where I feel interrogated about what just happened, when the next appointment is, and how much can I pay? Actually, they don't ask me this anymore, as I think they feel sorry for me as my puppy-dog eyes float across the partition while I proudly ask for a bill to be sent.

As I leave, I am thankful that even in a town a million miles away from people who really know me, there are still people who really care, no matter how much it hurts.