The Dentist: A narrative

I went to the dentist last week. Slamming my hand in the car door would of had the same effect and it wouldn't have involved a vacuum cleaner and a miniature ice pick roaming through my mouth. I’m not a fan of the dentist which is why it has been six years since my last visit. I just don't like my teeth. The thought of someone staring at them for an hour just makes me a little self-conscious. I’m sure they’ve seen worse teeth than mine, but what if mine are the second worst? That’s just as bad. I wanted to mumble something about eating rocks as a kid but I didn’t want to give the dentist any more ammunition than he already had.

I sat in the waiting room (which was really just a waiting hallway) and filled out my medical history. Who really remembers their medical history? I’m sure some people remember every sliver and black eye they received from the time they were in diapers but the rest of us just remember the major points and make up the rest. “I broke my collarbone a couple of times and I got some stitches and I think I had lupus for a weekend. I was abducted by aliens at which time they probed me and implanted homing devices in various places. I don’t floss very much, I had a hamburger for lunch and I ate a lot of rocks as a kid.” Okay, so I didn't actually put in the alien thing but I wanted to so I could see if they were paying attention.

So I finished my medical history and had a seat in the waiting hallway. I wondered if dentists knew how much they were feared by the general public. How did they develop such a reputation? Was there ever a time in history when people wanted to go to the dentist? Whenever the world’s first dentist opened his clinic someone probably walked by and said, “Dentist? That sounds kinda fun.” Of course this was the last time anyone ever said fun and dentist in the same sentence.

The dentist finally called my name and flashed me a smile that said, “Hi, my name is Miles. I want you to completely relax and trust me. I’m going to lull you into a tranquil state and then stick sharp metal objects into your mouth when you least expect it.” So I follow the friendly dentist deep into the bowels of the office and he tells me to have a seat in the chair and make myself comfortable. Comfortable? As I surveyed his array of weapons I wondered if skinny dipping in a pool of electric eels would have been more comfortable. Don’t these people believe in drawers? This must be the first lesson in dental school. “Okay class, I want everyone to get out your tools and line them up in order of how scary they look. Make sure the mirror on a stick goes at the beginning. No one is afraid of that. Put the drills on the opposite end.” At any moment I expected Miles to saunter into the room with a grin and a thick german accent. “Ve have vays ov making you talk, Dr. Jones.” But he didn’t. He merely scraped on my teeth for a half hour and told me I needed to floss more. Then he looked at the x-rays and told me how many cavities I had. I stared at the x-rays for a long time and I couldn’t see anything that remotely looked like a cavity but I wasn’t going to argue with a man who had access to so many power tools.

When I was ready to leave I received my free tooth paste and floss. I thought about asking if I could exchange them for a box of milk duds but I was afraid Miles would strap me back down to the chair and start drilling some more. And that feels like slamming your hand in the car door.