My dentist and his staff are great people. They’re highly skilled, have a great drill side manner, and do everything in their power to make my visit as pleasant as possible.
Still, “going to the dentist” is a terrifying experience for me.
Here’s why.
I’ve had dental issues ever since I was a little kid. Without dentists, orthodontists, periodontists and other kinds of “dontists,” I would either be walking around with hillbilly teeth or no teeth at all.
As a child I had this one tooth that was basically a fang, and if a kind dentist – I think his name was Van Helsing – had not removed it and done some sort of dental voodoo, I would currently look like half a vampire.
All that being said, I was quite the little trooper up until my mid-teens. Thanks to nitrous oxide (laughing gas), I would get good and relaxed before any dental work was done, and the procedures were mostly run of the mill.
I might leave with a numb lip and sore gums, but it was no biggie.
Then came 1978.
For reasons I can’t fully recall – or perhaps simply don’t wish to – I found myself at a dentist who did not provide laughing gas.
Strike one.
I needed a filling, so he had to give me a shot of Novocain in the upper left side of my mouth. But early on in the drilling, I started experiencing some pretty intense pain because the shot didn’t completely deaden the area.
Strike two.
After a couple more shots kinda/sorta did the trick, he again started the process of drilling, but part of the tooth shattered. I’m not sure what happened after that, but I finally had a full understanding of how Dustin Hoffman felt in “Marathon Man.”
Any time I hear the phrase, “Is it safe?” I pee a little.
Strike three.
Because of my fear, I spent years completely avoiding the dentist, and that dental neglect naturally led to a lot of problems as an adult. Only until I had a mind-numbingly painful abscess did it reach the point where I looked like that mountain man in “Deliverance” and decided I had to get back in the chair.
Even then, I wanted assurances.
Do they provide nitrous? And if so, will there be plenty on hand when I arrive? And if so, is there a chance they can go ahead and dose me while I’m in the waiting room?
If not, do I qualify for medical marijuana? And if that isn’t an option, would it be cool to spark up a joint?
(The answer, by the way, was no on all counts).
The fear was irrational, but very real. And I was not ashamed to admit that having dental work done was one of the very last things I wanted to endure.
So when I finally relented and returned to the dentist’s office for some major work, I asked that they crank up the nitrous to 11. I sniffed as hard as I could because – and I’m being completely honest here – I wanted my ass high before anyone came at my mouth with a needle.
Despite the gas I still remember gripping the armrests as hard as I could and contorting my legs in such a way that I looked like I was either trying to score a goal via a bicycle kick, or acting out a scene from “Flashdance.”
But you know what?
I came through it fine.
I didn’t enjoy it because only a masochist would, but the doc and his team held my hand (figuratively) throughout the ordeal and did all they could to ease my angst.
And since that time – which was about 10 years ago – I’ve had everything from a root canal to a crown replacement, and every time they make a point to comment on what a big, brave boy I am.
So, no, I’ll never look forward to trips to the dentist, but I at least know the folks there are going to do a great job. And I’m very grateful to them.
They still won’t give me nitrous when they clean my teeth, though.
That kinda pisses me off.
So why are so many people in Chattanooga pissed off about having two teams?