Ok, this is going to be another one of those "well back in my day" kind of stories. I don't know about you but I have a pretty unhealthy, childhood fear of the dentist. Even at my age, with all the advancements in dental care and chair side manner now offered by today's dentists, I still cringe at the thought of having to go to the dentist. I'm kinda like those old WWII veterans who after 60 - 70 years still get emotional over their experiences. Now, I"m not trying to say going to the dentist is like going to war but let's just say my scars run long and deep.
So, let's see a show of hands from those whose early dental experiences were something like this. You're abruptly pulled from your sister's room while in the middle of GI Joe ransacking Barbie's house, leaving a dismembered Ken as a warning to all other toys. I'll admit I'd never attempt that when my sister's were home. You're tossed into the old '68 VW bus, strapped into your seat and sent on your way to the living hell that resides in a musty, old dental office in downtown San Francisco. You arrive and are told to sit down and be still. No toys in the waiting room. Certainly nothing like you'd see today. Hell, dental offices today look like a Toys R Us store. Nope, all you have are a few old LOOK magazines and a bunch of dental brochures that show rotted teeth and gums. At this point fear slowly starts to seep into my veins.
At the moment I start to entertain ideas that this is all a bad joke and that we'll soon be going home, a crusty, old, silver haired man in a white smock walks out with a look that says someone pissed in his Cheeriors and he's looking to take his vengeance out on this hapless six year old. Fear meter has moved up several pegs. "Come with me!" he barks and I quickly follow this grim reaper to my impending demise. Walking into this chamber of horrors I see a large, stainless steel contraption that has drills and picks coming out from all directions, like an octopus of death. A porcelain spittoon hangs at the side of a leather chair which points upward, as if pleading to heaven to spare this young child. I hop up on the chair, surrounded by implements of death and my fear meter has tapped well into the red zone. I immediately start negotiating with God to spare me, promising pristine behavior for the rest of my life but alas, my prayers go unanswered. The nightmare will now begin...
I hardly noticed the paper towel bib that's strapped around my neck. What the hell do I need a bib for? Oh, that question will be answered soon enough. "Just sit still, now!" The smell of stale cigarettes and formaldehyde engulfs my senses as he instructs me on how to behave. First up, the pick! Fear meter has now tapped out. A large, metal hook is now making it's way to my mouth and I'm frozen in abject fear. At this point in my life I discover that the touch of metal against my teeth is pretty similar to a few hundred volts of electricity coursing through my body. Of course I flinch and this makes Dr. Death more than irritated. "I said sit still!" After what felt like an hour of methodical mining for gold the dentist announced with a certain amount of glee that I had three cavities. What's a cavity? Yeah, sure, I know now that it means "hole" but I tell you that the word "cavity" carries the same vile characteristics as the "F-bomb" carries for others.
I thought the picking was bad. What came next was pure hell on earth. If I knew any government secrets back then I would've been spewing them like a busted fire hydrant. The decision was made to start drilling immediately. Of course I had no say in it. I will say that at this point in the evolution of dentistry there was Novacaine to help "reduce" the pain. Yeah, "reduce"... blow me! "This won't hurt a bit", says Dr. Death. Well, I'm here to tell you I would've assumed that "this won't hurt a bit" means no pain. Silly, little boy. A footlong needle was thrust into my mouth and after penetrating deep into my gums was twisted and turned in multiple directions with a ferocity only expressed by a knife carrying serial killer. Now Novacaine is suppose to set within 15 minutes. This clown must have had an afternoon tee time because he was firing up that drill in five minutes. What the hell? My mouth is not numb!! "Just raise your hand if this starts to hurt." I guess he didn't think it was funny when I immediately raised my hand while he was still holding the drill. I would soon pay for my sophomoric gesture.
The sound of the high pitched drill filled the tiny office and before the drill made it's way to my mouth I immediately clenched my ass checks so hard that if you had put a piece of coal in there you'd find a big, fat diamond. Talk about your "blood diamond". From my neck to my toes, every muscle was taunt with anticipation. "Open wide!" bellows Dr. Death. My breath became short and shallow. Sweat started to build up on my brow. He thrust his fat, sausage like fingers (sans gloves) into my mouth, pulling down my jaw in an awkward, painful position and immediately began drilling. It became apparent to me that the Novacaine hadn't set in because the blinding electricity started shooting through my body again. I remembered his command to raise my hand if it became painful but I thought I'd try to gut this out given that he was already pretty annoyed with me up to this point. The drilling seemed to go on for an eternity. I was pretty certain there wouldn't be anything left if he kept at that pace. Maybe it was me but I could swear that he pressed down so hard with that drill that it actually slowed down. Slowed down up until it hit what I can only assume was a nerve that was wrapped around my brain stem. I flinched so hard my body convulsed . I immediately raised my arm with such vigor that Hitler would've been proud. I guess that little signal didn't have the impact I had hoped. Instead of stopping, Dr. Death barked at me to sit still. Tears were now running down the sides of my face. I couldn't believe that my last moments on earth were going to be spent on this chair as an old man drilled his way deep into my brain cavity. Ugh, there's that word "cavity".
After "hours" of drilling and without rhyme or reason, this bringer of death stopped. The sound of the drill was now only an echo that would remain permanently etched into my little mind. My body seemed to melt into the chair as my skin felt cold and clammy, sweating through my shirt. The rest was pretty much a blur. There was some additional picking and prodding but I was pretty much oblivious to all that. The next thing I remember was being given a little paper cup full of this light, blue liquid. I remember how sweet and refreshing it tasted. I was told to "rinse and spit". Not wanting to endure any more drilling I did as I was told, or at least I tried. The rinsing was pretty easy but spitting became another chore. FINALLY the novacaine set in and at that point I lost all feeling and control of my mouth. My attempt at spitting failed miserably as the blue liquid cascaded down my chin, barely making it into the spittoon. It was at that moment I noticed all this blood on my bib. It took a while to register it was mine. By this time I didn't care. I had succumbed to the idea that I was no longer going to live another day. But life plays cruel tricks on us. It was now clear to me that I would survive this day and that every six months for the rest of my life I would have to endure this hellish nightmare.
So here I am, 50 years old and I still enter the dentist's office with the same amount of dread that I did that horrible day nearly 45 years ago. But I will give credit to the dentists of today. The doctor I see now is absolutely amazing and so comforting. She actually hums songs while she's working on me and constantly gives me little bits of reassurance. If only I had a dentist like her 45 years ago. I suspect my anxiety is here to stay but like the old war veterans, I find ways to endure.
Ugh, I can't believe I have to go back in six months!
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