Member-only story
On Dentists and Flying Monkeys by Deb Trotter
When I was six my mom took me to the dentist for the first time. Dr. Forbes, his name was.
Big old man. Voice from a gravel pit. Hooked nose, skinny little glasses, and hands the size of a Mack Truck.
Can you imagine the size of Dr. Forbes fingers, if his hands were that large?
Don’t try to picture it for too long. Your brain may blow a socket, and your mouth will start to hurt for no reason (other than the fact that just one of Dr. Forbes’ fingers could choke you to death just by being inside your mouth cavity.)
That day in the dentist chair was worse than anything I could’ve imagined. For the lack of much worldly experience as a six-year-old, I can only compare it to being confronted by the Wicked Witch of the West and her monkeys in The Wizard of Oz movie.
I’m not so sure Dr. Forbes wasn’t worse than Margaret Hamilton’s witch, which is saying something. I mean, I’d rather have to run from the flying monkeys any day than to sit still while Dr. Forbes’ fingers invaded my mouth.
The second he stuck his index and third fingers inside my mouth I panicked. First, I gagged. Then, I couldn’t breathe.
I grabbed the arms of the dentist chair (I still do this) and tried to scream, but I couldn’t manage to make much sound…
