A Visit to the Dentist
Until fairly recently I had a toothache that could maim a rhino. Its funny now in foresight the pain and suffering I went through in order to avoid the man of a thousand drills. It wasn't as if I'd lost a leg in a freak yachting accident. Far from it. I had a mere cavity. A hole in my tooth. A tooth which had a nerve linked directly to the pain gland. I'm not a brave man, that I'm first to admit, but I honestly did not believe that one puny incisor could insist on ruining my life.
This oral hell went on for a couple of months since my dentist first told me that there was a very real possibility I would need a root canal in the near future. To an oraladrillaphobic like myself, this was the end. A root canal, that's the sort of thing they should be doing near a river, not my bloody mouth. The words root and canal are bad enough flying solo but put them together in the same sentence as drill and needle and I'm a slobbering mess. Time went by but the pain got worse. It was like chewing on an ice cube wrapped in tin foil. After yet another sleepless night I decided it was time to go back to the collector of evil instruments and have the wretched root canal. Well, my girlfriend did anyway. She rang and told me of the appointment while I was at work. As the hours drew closer to my dreaded date with the dental demon my nerves grew and my tooth ached more.
Then came my opportunity to bail. Dr Death's assistant called me at work to confirm my appointment. Well, that's what she said. I figure she was somehow attempting to gauge my fear - deciding whether it was necessary to bring out that one instrument that guaranteed pushing me over the edge. You know the one, it looks like a cross between one of Freddy Kruger's fingers and a common pair of thin tipped pliers. In all probability she was only doing her job. The nerve and pain cocktail had a funny way of twisting my imagination. I realise now she was offering me a get out of jail free card and I hadn't even passed go yet. I should have acted quickly. 'What appointment?' I could have said. I could have used the tried and true 'I'm sorry but a cassowary just ate my car keys.' But no, "I'll be there." is all I offered. "I'll be there." The threat of a girlfriend who'd been woken once to often by my midnight sobs momentarily outweighing any fear of the dastardly operation that lay ahead.
The time passed slowly after that phone call. My palms were sweaty, my heartbeat raced. Talking tooth decay with fellow work-mates just added to my anxiety. "You know Jacob from Accounts? He had a root canal. Spent three months in hospital. In the end that had to cut his head off, there was nothing else they could do for the poor bugger." Thanks for the chat.
The receptionist smiled as I walked in the door - the sadist. She informed me that Dr Smith hadn't died a grizzly death in the preceding two hours. "Take a seat", she offered. I did. I must have looked a sight, sitting there with a heartbeat slightly slower than the rpm of the drill in the room next door. To take my mind off things I picked up a copy of Time magazine from 1968. Fine read, right on the cutting edge, I thought. Is it just me or does every doctors/dentists waiting area have magazines from the pre lunar landing period?
"Mr. Dodson, the doctor will see you now." This was it. The story about the new wonder drug penicillin, would have to wait. Time goes on. It was no more than ten metres to the door of the surgery but the trip seemed to take an eternity. I'd been to quicker cricket matches. Past the x-ray room, past another surgery, past the room they made all the spare teeth in and into 'the room'. The room smelt of anaesthetic, that and obviously smoke from the drill. It was painfully sterile. Disposable plastic sheaths covered everything, including the dentist's face and hands. What was he trying to hide? Paranoia had now set in. He said nothing at first, just stared at my x-rays from a previous visit. A little green pill bubbled away in a plastic cup just next to the spit bowl. An attempt at softening the mood of the room hung in a cheap frame by the door. Various certificates competed for attention. They weren't getting mine. The assistant slipped quietly into the room; the holder of the spit sucker. I didn't care about her, they didn't let her near the drill.
"So Paul, lets have a look at that incisor." A look, huh. Why didn't he just come out and say it. Let's drill a hole the size of Belgium in that incisor. That's obviously what was on his mind. I was on the verge of becoming hysterical. I opened my mouth as he adjusted the chair. I could feel myself creeping into the fetal position. He straightened me out.
"Hmmm, yes hmmm. Does it hurt when you drink hot or cold drinks?" he asked as he probed around with an ice cream stick.
"Theth ath thlittl", I replied. He understood. He jabbed the pulp (which is dentist speak for nerve) with an instrument like a fish hook on the end of a crochet needle. I jumped four feet out of the chair. I landed on the assistant. When I got back in the chair he said, "I think we'll need to perform that root canal now Paul. Jenny, can you pass me a hypodermic and fifty mill of hydronumbaclorate please." This was it, the moment of truth, the moment of pain. I dug my fingernails into the underside of the armrests. I closed my eyes as the tip of the needle slid its way to a point just south of my eyeball. The spit sucker sucked, the needle poured out its magic as tears welled in my eyes. He jabbed me again and again and again, till the whole left side of my head tingled. I felt good. I nearly hadn't cried. Spurred on by my new found bravery, I thought it time to ask for details of what terror awaited. He passed me a crudely put together book titled, "So you're going to have a root canal". He left the surgery to massacre someone next door. He promised me he'd be back in ten minutes; after the anaesthetic took hold. The title of the book suggested that the procedure would not be cheap. It made it sound like it was either that block down the coast or an hour in the chair. I'd gone this far, what the hell, the beach could wait. The book went into a little to much detail regarding the whole thing about drilling. But the really distressing thing was the process of pulp eradication. Yes, pulp eradication. Sounds like a cattle thing doesn't it. Round up all the cows, dip them, viola, pulp eradication. Unfortunately for me, I wasn't about to be dipped. I was however going to have tiny files pushed into my nerve until it was all filed away. He'd start with a file not much thicker than a common dressmakers pin, the book assured me but by the time he'd finished he'd be pushing one of those files farriers use on horses hooves into my gob. Sounds inviting doesn't it?
The anaesthetic set in, which suited me just fine. The dentist came back in and asked if I had any questions. Rather silly I thought, after all, he was only a dentist. He didn't know the answer to the one about teenage acne and the question regarding tax minimisation had him really stumped. Two love to me, but he had the drill.
"First of all Paul I'm going to create a dam". A dam I thought, a dam. A dentist specialising in engineering, strange. I checked the range of certificates on the wall looking for anything that resembled a diploma in water catchment construction. Not a thing. Dams, canals, maybe I should have taken a right turn in the foyer. The dam in reality was a sheath of rubber supported by a metal frame stretched across the entire width and breath of my lower face. I looked a little like Anthony Hopkins in 'Silence of the Lambs' when they wheeled him out to meet the Senator, although a touch more pathetic. The sheath had a whole cut where my incisor was. I guess so as he didn't drill and file the wrong tooth.
He started the drill. It whirred its menacing whir. He had a mask on but I could tell he was smiling; his eyebrows were raised. I sank further in the chair as the assistant slipped the spit sucker behind the dam. The he came at me. At this point I could have swore his eyes were closed. I was having trouble breathing. That damned dam confining the flow of oxygen to my lousy blocked nostrils. He drilled, I snorted. She sucked, I spluttered. He filed, I cried. They finished, I laughed.
It was then he said it. The statement which to me was akin to the meaning of life. It gave me hope. It gave me reason to believe. It proved that maybe I wasn't a yellow bellied yam after all. "Don't worry Paul, brown eyed people feel pain and suffer stress much more than anyone else." How true, of course they do. That was it, I was brown eyed. It's that simple. The assistant shed a tear.
So next time you feel the need to inflict pain or misery on anyone, take time out to look them in the eye. If they're brown, reconsider. If it's my dentist, punch him in the gob for me.
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6 months ago
