The Dentist Is Going To Kill Me
Take my blood. Shove a cold probe up me. Give me a tattoo. There are so many things I would rather do than go to the goddamn dentist.
I have dedicated an unnatural amount of anxiety to my teeth. You’d think that would mean they were perfect, but my crooked tooth that developed after braces because I was too lazy with my retainer begs to differ. (Also, I’m sorry, Mom.)
I am also horrible with flossing, just like everyone who isn’t a big, fat liar. But I brush twice a day and I usually buy the expensive toothpaste because I’m convinced it will buy me more time to avoid the dentist.
When you’re learning how to become an adult, no one forces you to go to the dentist anymore. (In fact, some can’t afford to.) Which kind of seems like it would be a blessing, right?
It actually leaves me even more crippled by fear because I know I need to but why the hell would I pay to have my gums bleed and be judged by a stranger? I could just walk outside and ask someone to punch me in the mouth for free.
As soon as you enter the office, you’re greeted with a thick aromatic cocktail of rubber, mint and what I’m only assuming is formaldehyde. You’re half-heartedly welcomed by the only person more miserable to be here than you: the receptionist. To be fair, I would hate my life too if I spent that much time around dentists all day.
You sit anxiously in the waiting room, your sweaty palms flipping through old magazines that dozens of others have previously sweated on. Finally, your name is called with a tone that makes you feel like you should apologize for being here.
Then comes the fun part. You sit in a plastic chair and try to avoid being blinded by the giant lamp in your face. A dental hygienist then proceeds to brush your teeth with sand (flavor of your choice), and scrape them with a tiny hook. She’ll then cut your mouth with minty floss and, without a spot of empathy, will explain the blood is your own damn fault because you don’t floss enough.
Once all the grunt work is done and the hygienist is done pre-judging you, the dentist will come in and attempt to talk to you like you’re old pals and your mouth hasn’t just been physically assaulted.
Of course, you can’t actually respond to anything Dr. Chatty is saying because you’re too busy trying not to gag from the fluoride that’s still in your mouth. Also, you really hate yourself for picking any flavor but mint.
If you’re lucky, things end there. But you’re never lucky. There’s always a cavity, or a filling, or a root canal that demands you come back far sooner than you’d like.
For a brief moment, I lived with a guy in his last semester of medical school. He was working to become an X-ray technician. He once told me that dental X-rays were the most common exposure to radiation for healthy people, which, in turn, increased their risk for meningiomas.
Hey, want to know what meningiomas are? BRAIN TUMORS! Even science hates the dentist!
When I’m 40 and my teeth fall out of my mouth, I may regret letting fear take over my dental hygiene practices. But I’ll take dentures over a brain tumor any day.
