The Torture Of Going To the Dentist

I hate using the word hate.  It's a venomous verb.  I don't hate yucky kale, mushy fish or stinky cheese. I just haven't acquired a taste for them. I don't hate humans, except Michigan fans. But I confess I hate going to the dentist. I would rather endure torture at Abu Ghraib prison than let a dentist near my teeth.

Come to think of it, a dental procedure is similar to being waterboarded in some remote rendition center. Only the music is better in Iraq's Abu Ghraib.  Who selects the tunes piped overhead while you maintain a death grip on both arms of a dental chair?  North Korea's Supreme Leader Kim Jong-un?  

Millions of Americans share my irrational fear. Some pointy heads in the dental health profession published a study in 2013 revealing 36% of my fellow citizens suffer from this phobia.  Of those, fully 12% are classified as having "extreme dental fear."  I am in the 1% that dentists fear most: whiners.

When a dentist spies my name on the daily appointment list, she likely gulps a few Xanax. "Not that guy!" I expect to be sedated right after I check in with the receptionist.  My teeth are more sensitive than a Woke college student.  A prick with a metal dental tool triggers electrical shocks to my gums.  

My adventures in Dental Hell began with my first trip to the dentist at about six years of age. I started bawling the minute the dentist cooed, "Open wide."  The poking, prodding and probing were excruciating. The dental assistant dropped her girth on my tiny body to prevent movement.

I was too young to remember this episode but it was repeated countless times by my parents whenever I was scheduled for another check-up, along with a stern warning: "Don't cry!"  Not exactly the most comforting thought before entering the Chamber of Torture.  But I never cried again.  So there.

My worst nightmare was the summer before my senior year in high school.  At a routine check-up, the dentist announced excitedly: "I found ten cavities!"  His thoughts must have drifted to an expensive vacation in the Swiss Alps.  This was going to be a whopping payday for a small-town practitioner.

Over the next two months, I shuttled back and forth to the dentist.  It seemed like the whole summer was wasted.  My mouth was permanently numb.  My jaw ached.  My teeth clanked with metal fillings. The anticipation of another  trip to the dentist haunted my dreams and kept me awake at night. 

Then in my 20's, I endured my first root canal.  For the uninitiated, this procedure ranks near the top of the pain scale, at least in 1970's dentistry.  Imagine a sensitive tooth pummeled with a hammer.  Then your mouth is stuffed with foul tasting goop. Warning: there are root canals in Hell.

When I lived in London in 1995, I was introduced to the Dark Ages of European dentistry. The techniques and equipment were right out America's 1950's.  Noisy foot-pedal drills, painful cleanings and brusque dentists.  And those were some of the bright spots.

The dentist examined a tooth that had been throbbing with pain. After a stroke of his chin, he decided an extraction was required. "Do you prefer I use a knife or pliers?" he asked with a poker face. Are you kidding me, I mumbled under my breath.  I almost bolted from his office.

Then he patiently explained he had been trained as a field surgeon in the British Army.  He was proficient at extracting teeth with a knife. But we weren't in a war theater.  Bombs weren't falling around us.  I was in a dentist office, for goodness sake.  "I prefer the pliers," I said. He appeared disappointed. 

Back stateside, I went 18 months without a checkup.  Bad idea.  When I finally trudged to the dentist's office, the torturer peered into my mouth and harrumphed.  "You have a lot of old fillings. Some are deteriorating. You need crowns.  Gold crowns."  This sounded like some crypto currency scam to me.

After a series of agonizing visits, my mouth resembled Fort Knox. Overnight, my crowns were worth more than my stock holdings. My net worth soared.  Big banks became my best friends.

These incidents were leading up to the equivalent of dentistry's MegaMillions jackpot.  An annual check-up revealed I needed a tooth implant.  There are few words that would do justice to the experience.  Close your eyes and pretend a 18-wheeler just plowed into your mouth.  Sideways.

A metal socket was implanted into my gums. Driven in with a sledge hammer or some such instrument. Then a tooth that appeared as if it was found in the zoo was fitted into the receptacle.  I have condensed the process to spare you the grisly details.  I guarantee you having heart bypass surgery is less stressful.

Pain is not just found in the dental chair.  Once a harassing assistant called my office and left a message with my secretary, claiming I owed $300.  The back office had filed my claim incorrectly.  It was their error.  I never got an apology.  I sent the dentist a nasty letter and told him I hoped his teeth rotted.

More than a decade ago,  I was fortunate to locate a compassionate, skilled dentist who empathizes with my peccadilloes.  Her name is Dr. Joan Dreyer DDS. She is the first dentist I have known with a sense of humor.  Apparently, you are required to be humorless to get a dental certification.  

Dr. D, as I call her, has a syringe standing by whenever I plop in the dental chair.  At the first sign of a twitch, she injects me with Happy Numbing Juice.  The pain disappears.  My heart palpitations vanish. She talks me through each procedure, like a psychiatrist dealing with a troubled child.

I know this may sound like I am a ninny.  But frankly, I don't care. Once you have suffered through the dental wars as I have, it is almost certain you will develop Post Traumatic Dental Stress Disorder (PTDSD). You won't find it in the medical books.  But I assure you it is real.  At least, I think it is.