Crunch

I hate the dentist. Every time I visit the dentist’s office I leave exhausted. I spend the 30 minutes to an hour that I am there with my entire body in one giant knotted ball of tension. The dentist’s office is second only to nursing homes on my list of least favorite, most stressful places.

I’ve felt this way as long as I can remember. Some of my most vivid childhood memories involve me sitting in the waiting room at Dr. Sizemore’s office in downtown Florence. I remember sitting and trying to find the five differences between two illustrations in Highlights magazine. The horrific noises and smells of the exam rooms a few feet away made the search nearly impossible.

The noises and the smells. I sill cannot bear the noises and the smells. The high-pitched whine of the drill. The sweet, yet pungent, odor of nitrous oxide. The muffled voices and occasional cries. The smell of latex. The low, almost ghostly, presence of soft rock.

I think my least favorite is the sound of the drill. The high-pitched whine permeates the air of the waiting room. As a child, my mom dubbed the noise “The Three Little Pigs.” It was a cutesy attempt to make it a little less threatening. It did not work. When the squealing began, all I could think of were tiny little pigs being tortured and eaten by a hungry wolf. And I was next.

As a child I had bad teeth. Really bad teeth. British bad. By the time I lost my fist tooth, almost all of my molars had fillings. The dentist said my teeth were unusually receptive to decay. Lucky me.

This meant many, many visits to the dentist. Many, many hours spent laying back, staring into the exam light. Mouth agape, nose covered by a mask. I lay there trying to inhale as little as possible. Trying to ignore the squealing, dying piglets.

My adult teeth have been kind to me. Since pre-adolescence my visits to the dentist have been merely cleanings. I still hate it.

As soon as I walk through the door I am 5 years old again. Now I skim through Time or Sports Illustrated instead of Highlights. The distractions are the same, though. The sounds. The smells.

I say all of this because, today, I’m going to the dentist. I am dreading this visit more than a typical cleaning. Today, for the first time since childhood, I have to have actual dental work done.

Yesterday I had a salad for lunch. I won’t mention the restaurant. There’s no need. On my 2^nd or 3^rd bite something crunched. Not the crunch of lettuce snapping. The crunch of tooth cracking. I felt around my mouth with my tongue. I touched something hard and sharp.

I worked the invading object to the front of my mouth. I reached up and retrieved a small rock from my lips. Using my tongue again, I checked my teeth for damage. Everything seemed OK. I finished my salad after a few more cautious bites.

After I finished I checked my teeth again. That’s when I found it. The second to last molar on the top, left side of my mouth. Chipped.

I went to talk to the manager. I expected the worst. She could not have been nicer. I filled out a short form and she said to have the dentist call the store when I get it fixed.

Now the hard part. I have to get it fixed.

8:45 is coming way too quickly.

*UPDATE* - I was in and out in about 15 minutes - including waiting room time. There was grinding involved. (Very much like drilling.) But I survived. I still hate going to the dentist!