Dentist’s offices always offer the same unnerving sensory experience.
The smell of antiseptic, the harsh glare of florescent lighting and the uncomfortable, high-pitched whine of drills.
When you happen to be a twelve-year old kid with gruesome visions of having teeth yanked out by a large sadistic man with pliers from hell, that visceral fear is only intensified. It seemed odd that only last night I had been in Stuart with my dad and grandparents at a Christmas bash held at the local skating rink. There had been all sorts of food, games, and general good times by all. The abruptness with which happiness can dissolve into utter and naked fear is alarming.
I had always had a general sense of unease around medical practitioners, coupled with a bizzarre and compelling curiosity. My distaste extended to nurses, who, if they were young, I felt they were just acting more grown-up than they really were. If they were older, I assumed they were going to be mean old Battleaxes.
The nurse in the dentist’s office was young, and pretty, which only made me hate her more. We were led to small room which in my memories appears to be an interrogation chamber, though I’m certain the atmophere was designed to much less foreboding. My mother answered a series of medical history questions with disquieting honesty, not even opting to leave out the (completely medically irrelevant) embarassing genetic condition I suffered from (and had repaired) when I was two. I must have said something out of anger, becaues the nurse said in that Pat-The-Little-Fellow-On-The-Head voice “It’s okay…I don’t think any less of you!”
Then and there, I decided that after I grew up and exacted my revenge on all the world’s dentists, she was going to be the first.
My mother was finally excused to go to the waiting room while I was led back to the over-illuminated operation area, an open area with four or five chairs in it. The lights on the equipment blinked “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” in Morse code. I climbed into one and had my gums numbed by a bitter-tasting substance that came from a bottle with a picture of an anthropomorphic strawberry happily smiling on it. As I was waiting for the dentist and nurse, I heard them talking in low tones behind me.
“Let’s get him started on nitrous.” then dentist said.
That got my attention.
“What?” I demanded.
They spoke in measured, soothing tones, which only made me trust them less. The last time I heard that tone was during some extreme unpleasantness near the end of my kindergarten physical. Kids know that when adults talk to them in a way that sounds designed to be soothing, something Very Bad is up. Especially in a situation that doesn’t warrant being relaxed.
“We’re going to give you some happy gas.” the dentist said, addressing me for the first time. “That’s what professors would call ‘nitrous oxide’.” I replied, feeling that this scientific-sounding retort would impress them into treating me like an equal, which of course it didn’t. I don’t remember what they said to that, but despite my objections a very rubbery-smelling triangular piece was placed over my nose while shining a blinding light directly into my eyes.
I decided I wasn’t going to play this game. Whatever diabolical plan they were formulating in their brains was going to be thwarted. Despite the difficulty, I forced myself to breathe through my mouth, circumventing their evil plan to make me high as a kite and oblivious to whatever devious mutilations they had in store for my teeth. They thought they had me. Ha!
They sat down and began several minutes later. Several large, gleaming metal tools that looked more suited to building an oak cabinet than dentistry were wheeled over. “Whuuts hat?” I asked, unable to speak properly around the numbness. My lips felt about ten times larger than normal. “It’s called an ‘elevator'” Mr. Evil Dentist replied nonchalantly, fondling the nefarious-looking chisel while gazing at my teeth with a cold gleam in his eye, looking like the evil stepbrother of Dr. Christian Szell from Marathon Man.
If he asks “Is it safe?” while holding a drill, I’m running for the door.
He reached in a started pushing, pulling, and grinding with his various instruments. Occasionally they would stop to go over previously-taken x-rays or fiddle with their equipment, or to do some work on another patient – a small boy to my immediate left who I couldn’t see, but who made his presence known by screaming shrilly at the top of his lungs every time the dentist or technician would go over to his seat. “Is he killing him over there?” I asked the nurse, who replied “Not today.” in her best condescending tone. I glared up at her. The dentist came back and continued to work.
Three hours passes slowly in a dentist’s chair. There’s really nothing to look at other than the white ceiling tiles. Despite my apprehension, I was actually starting to get a little bored. Until I heard the dentist say “Oops.”
If there is one word guaranteed to elicit apprehension in a patient undergoing a medical procedure, it is the word “Oops”. Only a practitioner bereft of intelligence would allow this to slip out while in the middle of work on an obviously nervous pediatric patient. I immediately stiffened. “Wud yoo neem, ooobs?” I managed to blubber out, my lips fighting me with every syllable. “Nothing.” he said, as though discussing his favorite brand of shoes. I saw him thread a dark piece of string onto a large, curved needle, which he proceeded to jam into my gums. My eyes widened. “Just a minor accident.” he continued conversationally. “Nice weather we’re having lately.”
I’ve noticed that all dentists are conversationally challenged. Our family dentist growing up was named Dr. Peirce, and the man was the epitome of the aloof, cold doctor archetype. The only phrase in the man’s vocabulary was “Aaaaand…open.” delivered with dead eyes and a bored tone from behind a green paper mask. Even with it off, he never smiled. Today, looking back semi-objectively, I wouldn’t go to him for dental work.
In the end, as planned, eight of my teeth were gone, and I was left with large gaps in my smile which made me look like a mis-carved Jack-O-Lantern. I was treated to a steady diet of Jell-O and pudding for the next few days while the damage healed, and had another brief visit to remove the stitches required because of Mr. Dexterity’s minor slip with the scalpel.
They gave me my teeth in a little yellow box to take home. I had fun showing my friends, all of whom seemed impressed.
The cotton gauze in my mouth made it feel like I was chewing on an old gym sock. I stepped out into the rain, letting the acrid smell of alcohol and sanitizer drift away in the cool air.
Exit, stage left.
Sparks