The Dentist

I do not like going to the dentist.

It hasn’t always been like this.
Once, going to the dentist was a yearly summer outing with mom where I sat in a big, yellow, plastic recliner, read comic books, and picked out a fancy plastic ring while someone brushed my teeth.

But now... Now going to the dentist sends my stomach into a topsy-turvy mess. The very motion of calling for an appointment is an act of sheer will. Actually getting into the car and driving myself there is a demonstration against my very nature.

I cannot stand the way it feels when they clean my teeth! All those disgusting scraping and rasping sounds and the poking and jabbing of gums, all the while your mouth is being stretched open. All those pvc tubes shooting and sucking water from your mouth. Woof.

Worst yet, the hygenists are rude if you have any plaque build-up (which I’m sure I do after 2-3 years). At the first signs of tartar, they issue an indictment on your soul. Then comes the devil – perhaps the worst part of the visit. The tiny, sharpened, stainless steel shepherd’s hook that probes for holes.

It doesn’t hurt. It never does. But the sickening sensation that comes when it catches on a flaw in a tooth is soul-deadening. During the tooth-cleaning process, my whole body is rigid. During the seek-and-find-with-the-dastardly-hook process, my hands tightly grip the seat and my breathing becomes shallow. I can no longer make myself relax. It’s only a matter of prods before they verbally shame me and make another appointment.

I didn’t have my first cavity until I was 20. It was actually four, and they came as a bombshell shock. Luckily, there were no drilling or shots involved. I haven’t been back since. But the time has come. I have to do this – for me.

Did I mention the dentist’s name is Dr. Gore?