I go to the dentist regularly because I know that dental health is important to overall health. I get 'em cleaned every 3-4 months. And I hate it. All of it.
My dentists through the years have been good people: sensitive, caring, efficient and thorough, and skilled. With the exception of one mean old endodontist long ago, they each have been very understanding about my dental phobias. And I'm a good patient, I might add, although when I've moved from location to location, I've usually procrastinated finding a new dentist until it's clear that something is wrong (usually a missing filling or a toothache), and then I go, cry at the first appointment, and then am fine (more or less) for any subsequent appointments.
(Even though I still need to take enough anti-anxiety meds to allow my whole body to rest in the chair instead of tensely balancing on my hands and heels and back of the head.)
Don't laugh. I'm serious. When I was a child going to the dentist -- sans any meds, and at least once sans any novocaine -- I was so afraid of being hurt that I'd be tense as a board. While the hygenist/assistant and dentist always told me to raise my hand if it hurt, I'd still cry through the procedure, a slow drip of tears. And more than once, when I did lift my hand, the assistant gently put it back down again, which just increased the tear flow because it hurt and because I was so intimidated.
Because my head was lower than my feet, the tears would leak out of the corner of my eyes and drip into my ears. I'd end up with wet face and wet ears, and feeling very sorry for myself.
I even wrote a column about it when I was a cub reporter back in the late '60s for the Springfield Missouri Daily News, and I got mail -- mostly from dentists, who were not thrilled that I'd talked about how the drilling hurt and the rather unsympathetic assistant who put my hand down and just patted it when I'd lifted it to indicate pain. One of them admired the bright smile shown in the photo that ran with my byline, noting that the dentist had had something to do with that. There also were a few who completely understood how I felt since they are also dentalphobes.
So today I got my teeth cleaned. I've been brushing with an electric brush and using all the little dental torture instruments the hygenist has recommended. And I wear braces, which makes all of it more time consuming and tedious. She commended me on the wonderful job I've been doing, but then pointed out the places I've missed. Eh. So we'll try to hit those -- at least in the couple of weeks before my next appointment.
And then she fired up the ultrasonic de-plaquer, whatever it's called.
When I get my teeth cleaned, I go pre-medicated for pain and at least a little bit for anxiety. Digging around these old teeth and new crowns can really hurt. And despite all of this, I had puddles of tears in my ears by the time she'd finished.
The sonic thingamabob whines its way around the gum lines and in between teeth with the occasional oopsie into gum or lip tissue which hurts like someone stuck a hot needle into it. She had both hands in my mouth (and it's big, but not THAT big) and my neck was crooked. There was a heating pad behind my back, which is supposed to help relax me, but all it did was make an uncomfortable hump between my shoulder blades and the back of my head.
Oh, I always bring a CD player with some kind of loud music that will drown out the whine and help me concentrate on something besides what's going on in my mouth -- but it only partially worked today. I could feel my body begin to levitate off the chair into the three point (heels, hands, head) position and my jaw was locked so tightly that the whole side of my face hurt. The little suction thingy hung over my lip, but trails of saliva mixed with water still drooled down my chin and I worked hard not to gag as it pooled in my throat.
I felt very sorry for myself. snifflewhimperpoutwhine
When she'd finally scraped the last shreds of plaque (and a little enamel and gum tissue too), I was offered a choice of chocolate, raspberry or bubble gum flavored tooth polish. Bleah. (Maybe they should offer adult flavors: scotch on the rocks, martini, merlot...)
And once my teeth were raspberrily polished, the doc came in, poked around with his needlenosed probe, and pronounced me fine. Thankyouverymuchseeyounexttime.
So I made my way to the lobby and scheduled another appointment in four months, and then went to the car where I wiped my ears dry and let my chin quiver and the tears flow. And I wondered just how old I'm going to have to get before I stop feeling like this every time I have to go to the dentist. Pretty old, I'm guessing, and probably with a goodly dose of dementia or amnesia thrown in.
I'm reading Picoult's Plain Truth.
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