Getting The Chair

I hate the dentist. I freaking hate going to see the dentist. Can I be more clear? There are a precious few things that make me cringe in life. I don't like large expanses of open water [the kind that cover horizon to horizon], I'm not overly fond of the summer heat and humidity, but I flippin hate the dentist. There isn't much middle ground for me and that chair. Why? Why not! That scraping feeling, where it feels like each tooth is coming out for sure during their "delicate cleaning" process makes me cringe. I hate the sound the implements make. I hate the feel of your gums being burnt as they polish and apply fluoride paste. I detest the minuscule chunks of plaque and garbage they fling in the air, that inevitably lands in your eyes. I hate it when they say "sorry, that looks like your in pain." I hate the dentist.

When I go to see the doctor, I meet with a nurse first; who takes my information and has me sit and wait for the doctor. When I go to see the dentist, they snarl at me with perfectly bleached fangs, and scowl at the dingy chairs and 3rd rate magazine rack, as if I didn't know what my fate was. At the doctors office; I hear pleasant music. Sometimes Bach, maybe even Schubert, and on a rare Friday afternoon, maybe some talk radio. At the dentist, Axis Sally still calls out units thanking them to die, and welcoming fresh young teeth to wait their torture. My medical doctor leaves nice booklets about the place, modern health trends, Men's Health, Midwest Vacation Magazine, and that lone issue of Golf Digest. Its decorated in pleasant end tables, with lamps! And on the wall is some quaint [as I think of it] Nantucket house on the edge of the sea. Herr Dentist has framed pictures of Stage 4 Periodontal Disease over the exit door to dissuade any escape attempts. Tommy the Tooth leans on his brush, like the butcher leans on a meat grinder. His face is the cheeriest in the room, as I gaze over my copy of Tooth Cracker Illustrated. The waiting room at my physician has a slight hint of gauze and powdered rubber gloves, but is a fresh breath of sterile for the most part. The fetid fumes of the tooth puller are saturated in pain and sweat.

The doctor calls me by name, smiles, and comes out to shake my hand. Dr. Anderson doesn't see me much, but knows when he does something isn't right. He does his best medically, and personally to make me comfortable again. In the Evil Empire of Enamel, I only hear "NEXT," where I open the door my self, half expecting a rifle to be pointed out of it, to walk and find my fate. The screams of drills, and the garbled cries of my fellow man are all around me. I'm as hopeless now, as they are.

The doctor waits till I sit, then has the PA come in to take my history, and my basic vitals. She smiles, makes small talk, and reminds me about my weight. We laugh. I shrug, and say I try my best and some day it should show. Then she departs, reminding me that the doctor will be right in. I stand in the hallway of the [tooth]death camp, looking about me, as if i could, to find a brick I could pull away and crawl behind. But I'm spotted, and gestured to the room. And to The Chair. The last sharp voice I hear orders me to stop with soda, sugar, and all manners of things I love to eat; or else my teeth will rot right through my skull. After that, I hear the snap of a glove, and the whine of the drill. I black out. The pain is still there. But I try to separate myself in two. To peel back a layer of my psyche as they probe and scrape.

The doctor sees me, checks my symptoms. He knows I have drug allergies, and prescribes me a healthy dosage for my ailment. He knows this is the best treatment, but reminds me to call if a side affect materializes, or to set a follow up appointment in a week it my symptoms aren't diminished. He smiles, shakes my hand, and walks me out to the door. But by now, The Dentist, has yet to see me. He lets his underlings have their way with me first. To tire me out. To break my mind, and split my body, then let his healing touch flow around me. I'm scared. The minutes are hours... and after the first hour, I've lost track of what day it really was. Its painful. Its mental more than anything. They continue their wicked ways with out mercy. Until He arrives. He says nothing to me, but speaks in gibberish to a lackey. He identifies me only by my dental records. "Twisted 9." I can't speak. "20 mm over bite." More fingers get shoved in my mouth. Then he stands over me, shoving the light into my eyes, as if it could bring me more discomfort. "I still want to do that Endo on 17." I don't want what he wants, but its futile. "No cavities. ... This time. Schedule a follow up for the Endo, and a six month in February for him. Mark to watch Twisted 9." Then he leaves. My jaws ache from the abuse, but its my mind thats battered most.

Thats why I hate the dentist.

Because every time it feels like this. Every time my teeth hurt down through the roots, my jaws ache to the point of numbness, and I swear I can feel the places where they've burnt streaks into my teeth with the drills and instruments. I've been through 7 dentists in my life. Every single one is a vile as the last. I have a gag reflex now, that I never had. Its the freaking putrid smell of the dentist office and a finger in my mouth, and I'm ready to choke. I hate going to the dentist. I hate it more than most things in life. But I went. And yes, they really want to do a root canal on me, for a tooth that brings me no pain, and very limited sensitivity to cold. It made my routine check up, seem like a tool to shake me down for more money and more pain. I hate dentists. They only seem to have appointments for me at 8:15am, on my only day off in 2 weeks. Do I need more reasons? I think not. Did I mention, I still at 27 have never had a cavity? I rest my case.