The Dentist

The Dentist

I stared around in panic as the car rounded the corner. Oh no… it was getting closer and closer with every passing second. Quickly, I racked my brain, trying to formulate some sort of brilliant escape plan, but it was no good. The car screeched to a stop in the parking lot of the dentist’s office, and I knew my time was up. Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t “dislike” the going to the dentist; I hate the dentist. I shudder at the horrible scraping sound of metal against teeth, loathe the taste of the awful toothpaste they use, despise those plastic objects that they shove in your mouth to keep it open, and detest the overly-clean, sterile smell of the whole place.

I slowly got out of the car, dragging my feet as much as possible. Inevitably, of course, I eventually reached the door. With a resigned sigh, I pushed it open. It swung shut behind me with a tuneful tinkle; I was trapped. Gritting my teeth, I approached the counter cautiously. A large, hairy woman who looked as though she hadn’t quite gone through the evolutionary process stared up at me. After making a vague, grunting attempt at speech, she handed me a small slip of paper and resumed chomping on her banana. I turned the slip over and read: “Hi! My name is _________! I went to the dentist today!” A name tag? What was I, five? I plopped down on one of the faded couches, glowering. Actually, as I looked around, I realized that I was by far the oldest kid in the room. A pair of toddlers were playing with some blocks in the area titled “Cowboy Corral”, and three others were staring up at some obnoxious cartoon on the TV screen. A little girl suddenly snapped up her head and stared at me. Uneasily, I grabbed for one of many outdated magazines lying on the table and hid behind it.

An hour passed by, the waiting room was empty, and I was reduced to staring at the blank walls that

said inane things like, “Your teeth are your friends. Brush them!” The gorilla-like receptionist finally informed me that “The office is running a bit behind schedule.” Great. Just great. Were they trying to get me alone to torture me? As I considered this horrific possibility, I thought I heard a voice calling my name. A finger snapped under my nose, and I jumped back, startled.

“Why hello there, dear,” The overly cheerful voice greeted me, and I recoiled. Looking upwards, I saw a slightly strained looking woman with smudged lipstick and an unnervingly white smile staring down at me. Is it a rule that dentists have to have perfect teeth?

“You’re not wearing your name tag, missy!” she trilled at me, eying my shirt.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I thought. But though the smile stayed firmly in place, her eyes glittered with an unspoken threat. I reluctantly fastened the name tag to my shirt and stared at her challengingly. The nurse seemed to be satisfied and turned around. I mentally prepared myself for the small talk I knew was coming. Sure enough:

“How was school?”

“Fine,” I answered through clenched teeth, trying to limit my response to one syllable.

“Did you learn lots and lots? Lots and lots?!”

“Ummm…. Sure,” I muttered, fighting my desire to run away. My feeling was intensified as I was led into the main office. The room was covered with garish cowboy wallpaper and a few fairly disgusting pictures about what would happen to your teeth if they weren’t brushed.

The nurse sat me down onto a tiny bench. With her grimace still cemented firmly in place, she told me to wait until someone was ready for me and then hurried away. I settled myself against the bench and crossed my arms, hoping to look unfriendly. Having nothing better to do, I watched the people around me. I heard the cries of a small girl from the room behind me.

“But it hurts!” she wailed.

“I know, darling,” a dentist said, clearly trying to keep her patience. “But look! If you just hold still, I’ll give you a sticker!”

I bit back a laugh. Isn’t that nice? “If I can poke you in the mouth, you’ll get a sticky piece of paper!” What a reward. I turned my attention to a boy lying on a chair with glazed, wide eyes, seemingly hypnotized. Glancing up, I saw a television fixture attached to the ceiling that was showing the same annoying cartoon that was in the waiting room. It was a cunning move; the boy took no notice of the man who was rooting around in his mouth. Another young boy was fishing around in a bin, pulling something out, and sticking it back in. On closer inspection, I saw that he was examining toothbrushes. “It has to be the right color,” he told the man beside him seriously. “I mean, I can’t pick a girly color-” He withdrew a hot pick one. “-like this.” He placed it back looking thoughtful while the dentist lingered behind him with a pained look on his face.

“Next,” a booming voice called. Assuming she meant me, I got to my feet and stepped towards the vacant red chair. The nurse motioned for me to lie down, and as I did so, she shone the overheard directly into my eyes, temporarily blinding me. As I squinted at the brightness, a face suddenly loomed above me. “Hi there! I’m going to be making your teeth sparkle and shine today!” Oh, my god. The oh-so-bubbly dentist was wearing more eye makeup than I knew was possible to put on. But I suppose that if the only part of your face that wasn’t obscured by a face mask was your eyes…

“Open up,” she instructed. I did, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw her unroll her collection of various torture tools. After much consideration, she opted for the hook-like one to scrape of plaque with; Coincidentally, it was the one I hated the most. I wanted to cover my ears as the scraping started, sounding and feeling like nails on a chalkboard. “Oh my, my, my,” the dentist tutted, “You need to brush more, dear.” I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. Then she tried to talk to me while she still had the scraper in my mouth. Did she expect answers? Was I supposed to spit the thing out to answer her? As she figured out that I couldn’t exactly answer, she switched from pleasantries to a seemingly endless string of lecturing about my poor dental habits. She switched from one tool to another, from the tube that blew cold air on your teeth to the tube that sucked every bit of moisture from your mouth, to the drill-like instrument that coated your teeth with disgusting pink fluoride. I fought the reflex to gag, waiting and waiting for my time in the chair to end. Finally, the blessed words came:

“Okay, you’re all set!”

I slid off the chair, mumbled a quick “Thank you” and exited the room as quickly as I could, breathing out a sigh of relief. I ran my tongue over my teeth, tasting the sticky residue of the supposedly-strawberry fluoride and curling my lip in disgust. Then, I headed to the counter, where the gorilla-like receptionist met me to schedule my next torture session. Luckily, I won’t have to come back here for another six months, but I know I’ll be dreading that June seventeenth just as much.