Trip to the dentist not my favorite event

Before I start I want to let you know that I don’t have anything against dentists. They went to school for more years than I did and they paid their dues. They earn well-deserved titles like dental hygienist, orthodontist, periodontist, pedodontist, and endodontist to name a few. Most of them are doctors. And I appreciate them. But there are very few things I enjoy about a visit to my dentist. Pain endurance is one of my least favorite activities, yet it always seems appear on my schedule when I’m lying back in that chair with the cushioned headrest. I discovered a few years ago that popping a couple of ibuprofens in my mouth before the visit can be helpful- but not foolproof. As soon as the automatic chair begins its final descent to the reclining position, I revert to a mental state referred to by many as “a personal happy place.” Because of the bright light they place above me, my eyes have no choice but to close, which I prefer. My mind travels to tropical beaches, the Grand Canyon, and snow-covered mountains. But it doesn’t last long. The sensations around me don’t allow for an active fantasy life. No matter how much I’ve brushed my teeth in advance, I’m certain the inside of my mouth produces an undesirable odor when poked and prodded. Not taking any chances, my hygienist always wears a mask, which I completely understand and support. My gums always bleed and I am an incredible salivator. “Wow, your glands sure do produce a lot of saliva,” they always say. I don’t know whether to be proud or embarrassed. Maybe it’s a gift, perhaps a curse. Either way, I end up spitting a lot in that little sink which resembles a miniature toilet, swirling water included. I have nearly drowned on several occasions when the teeth cleaners have forgotten to let me spit out. They only learn of my dilemma when they ask a question and the only reply I can produce is a gargle. Those little pointy things they use to scrape the gook off my teeth scare me. Of course I know better, but they feel like irritated ice-picks jabbing angrily into my gums. And that gritty paste they use to clean my teeth tastes like sand soaked in motor oil. But the heart of my dental office phobia is undoubtedly the sounds. The gurgling sounds like the ones you hear victims make in bad horror movies. The scraping of teeth that drives me crazier than thirty sets of fingernails simultaneously scraping a chalkboard. That high-pitched sound you hear when they grind your teeth that makes all the neighborhood dogs howl. And the dreaded drill sound from another room when you’re sure they are amputating various limbs from the poor soul next door. So, all things considered, you may wonder why I ever visit my dentist friends and their little instruments of destruction. I think it’s because I get a handshake, a laugh or two, and a new toothbrush every time I visit. But most of all, I experience the satisfaction of knowing I’ll be able to safely bite into a piece of meat or a ripe apple for a while longer. And that makes it all worthwhile, even if I depart with slobber all over my shirt.