The Dentist

As I drove to the dentist office for the first teeth-cleaning of my adult life, I felt my palms start to sweat and my breathing get irregular. I was nervous about having a stranger’s hands in my mouth, and my back in a chair, at the mercy of some dental hygienist. I wasn’t nervous, I was scared. I was also amused at the thought of how I might react to a vasectomy appointment that I would inevitably schedule in the next few years.

When I was in my mid-twenties, I had a molar start to decay; a baby tooth that had stayed in place because there was no adult tooth to take its spot in my mouth. Short on adult bravery; short on adult teeth. When I finally went to the dentist to have that tooth removed, they stuck a numbing needle into my gums, and when the dentist gripped my molar with his pair of pliers I went into manic-mode and started humming “Jingle Bells” at the top of my lungs. 

it was the middle of the summer, but I needed something to drown out the sensation of my molar being crushed under pliers by a mask-donned dentist and his two evil hygienists. 

When the ordeal was over, I profusely apologized, and never returned to that dentist’s office again. 

That experience might have had something to do with my sweaty palms and hesitation around the cleaning appointment. I filled out some paper-work, which included the question “Is there anything you’d like changed about your teeth?” I indicated that I’d like my teeth to be more white. 

Probably should have thought about that back in my teens, some 10,000 or so cups of coffee ago. 

But here I was, learning to be responsible; admitting in writing that I almost never floss, and am only religious about brushing my teeth in the evening. 

I really hate the idea of someone sticking their gloved hands in my mouth and using metal tools to scrape my sensitive teeth. 

I mention to the lady at the front desk that I’m not into having people’s hands in my mouth, and she walks me to an upstairs room with one of those dentist chairs in the middle of it; it looks like every torture scene in any dystopian fiction movie I’ve ever seen. 

I’m asked to lay down on that chair, and someone else enters the room; it’s the professional torturer herself, the dental hygienist. I tell her how much I don’t like being there and her friendly confidence puts me a little at ease, but not much. 

She puts a piece of plastic in my mouth and tells me to bite down, lays a heavy lead blanket on me, and swings a mechanical arm around to the side of my face so she can take an x-ray –– so she says. 

I feel a cold rush of anxiety, and with the piece of plastic stuck between my teeth, I say “Hang on a sec. Is this gonna hurt?”

“Oh my God, you’re really nervous, eh?” 

She’s not judgemental; she says it like we’re locker buddies in high school and she can tell I’m worried about a math test I have next period. 

Me, on the other hand; I’m judgemental. I’m judging the dentist’s office for not mentally preparing me for this terrifying experience.

“It’s just going to make a little beep.” She says. 

After they beep my face, the hygienist scrapes my teeth for a bit and then calls in the dentist. He’s around my age, and I get the feeling it’s really important that he pays off his student loans so he can afford his house and cars and large dentist practice that needs improvement in all the areas he doesn’t seem to care about; namely, informing his guests that the big mechanical arm that requires a lead blanket and plastic mouthguard is only going to go “beep.” 

He notices where my baby molar was yanked out by the other practice in town, and in a very doctorly voice, he informs me that, eventually –– if I don’t deal with the gap –– the bone in my jaw where there is no longer a tooth will start to recede until it’s reduced to only a sharp edge of bone where no implant will anchor. Then the molars behind the gap will lean forward. This will all happen over a very slow period of time, mind you. Not right away. But if I do decide to properly fix it, it will cost around $5,000. 

He doesn’t say “Five thousand dollars” though. He says some uneven number, like $4752, probably because he heard on a business podcast that uneven numbers tend to generate a feeling of peace and tranquillity from patients who are self-employed and who have no insurance plans to cover such surgeries. 

I continue to be distracted by the way he’s saying things, and therefore not really listening well to what he’s saying. I have this problem from time to time –– specifically with politicians, preachers, and people trying to sell me things. 

Because I’m so jumpy about metal tools scraping my teeth, the hygienist only finishes half my mouth, and I’m forced to pay for a second appointment a week or two later. 

Now, when I’m watching Netflix at night, or I’m driving somewhere alone, I wonder how much time I have left before my jawbone becomes sharp like a razor and my back molars start to lean forward.

My palms go sweaty, and I think about the dentist drilling a hole in my jawbone for an implant.

I decide I’ll live with the missing tooth.