Historical humor by Tom Hoerr, February 1981. Satirical personal account of dental visits, not medical guidance.
This time of year reminds me that there are indeed a few universal truths, a few eternal verities.
While the human race can be differentiated by color, culture, and location, the holiday season causes me to reflect upon the fact that, throughout the world, man shares a desire for peace and a dread of the dentist.
There are probably a few other constants.
I don’t know anyone who enjoys paying taxes and I don’t know of anyone who doesn’t covet chocolate chip cookies.
On my continuum of unanimity, however, dread of dental surgery (d.d.s.) ranks number one.
Sometimes we have unfounded fears (Are you, too, reluctant to walk over grates in the sidewalk?), but that’s not the case with fear of the dentist.
There are valid wise reasons why it’s prudent to be afraid of the dentist. Mainly, the dentist hurts.
Oh, I know what you’re thinking: “What about pain killers?” Well, somehow they don’t work for me.
I feel it all. Everything.
Even if I can’t feel it, I imagine it. That makes matters worse because I have a very vivid imagination. Like a retired bullfighter, I’ve had all the painkillers.
As a small child (well, child, anyway) my dentist used ether. That was a real trip: Visions of the dentist and my mother holding my arms to the chair while I strained for oxygen remain with me to this day. Those experiences were so bad that as an adolescent I found myself with a macho dentist who didn’t use any pain killer when he installed fillings. “This will only hurt a bit,” he’d say. What he obviously meant was that the pain from my pleas for help through clenched teeth (clenched on the erasers he lodged in my mouth to keep me from clamping on his fingers), would only hurt him a bit; the whole process hurt me a great deal!
The macho dentist (I should have recognized his sadistic streak from the way he dressed. Back in the 60’s-pre-cowboy era he wore boots with spurs!) was replaced by soft ‘n easy dentist.
This guy wore a pink polyester smock (honest!), used piped-in FM music, and had a gold chain around his neck. “Mellow Pink,” as I called him, had refined the science of painless dentistry to an art: he gave me a dose of laughing gas so that I wouldn’t feel the needle which would give me the Novocain which would keep me from feeling the street construction on my teeth.
This series of measures actually worked.
Unlike the ether, the laughing gas was pleasant to breathe ( More than once I asked his assistant to hit me with another whiff). And, as promised, after the gas I didn’t even feel the needle.
Perfect, eh?
Wrong. Unfortunately this high also came to an end. Inevitably, between two and onehalf and three hours after I left the office, at about the same time that my check to him cleared the bank, all of the accumulated pain and anguish would hit me with one mighty prolonged “Bonk.” I might be acting my convivial self at a party, perhaps deep-sea fishing in the Caribbean, or maybe having a drink at the White House, when all of a sudden . . . ZAP!
While outward appearances would indicate that my mouth and cheek looked normal, nothing could be farther from the truth.
As I sat smiling graciously and being charming, hundreds of amoeba-like creatures were jumping up and down on my gums while wearing track shoes. Dr. Mellow Pink was a perfect reflection of our Fly Now-Pay Later society.
This brings me to my present dentist.
This guy is good. There’s no pain, his fingernails are clean, and he tells reasonably good jokes. What more could you want?
At least that’s what I thought until my most recent visit.
In spite of all his afore-mentioned virtues (He also takes Master Card.) I still didn’t relish going to the dentist.
This bothered me, for being a rational sort I wanted to put my finger on the problem. (You could say that I wanted to get my teeth into the problem.) In the middle of my last visit, it hit me.
I wasn’t feeling any pain, but I was in agony. I had even detached myself to a point where I wasn’t disturbed by the screaming, whirring sound inside my mouth.
I was deep in misery when the truth finally dawned as I tried to ask the question, “Why are you doing that?” but couldn’t talk.
I was mute!
No physical pain, but there I was, mouth propped open and unable to speak.
No clever retorts.
No acerbic comments.
No babbling.
No mediocre jokes. Not even small talk!
There were so many things I wanted, no, needed to say: “Do you really know what you’re doing? How does that work? Where did you get that wallpaper? How now brown cow?” Alas, I was silenced. Worse yet, the dentist and his assistant could exchange pleasantries, and I couldn’t join them!
It was a traumatic experience.
A classic example proving that mental anguish is worse than mere physical pain. “Go ahead, Rocky. Slug me again, but just let me talk about it.” I’ve given some thought to the problem and I think I have a solution.
For my next trips to the dentist I’ll be armed with the usual paraphernalia (aspirin, sweets to be eaten immediately upon leaving his office, Kleenex), plus a pencil and small note pad.
If I don’t brush regularly, I may wind up with the first Great American Novel written from a dentist’s chair!
Originally published in The Paper, February 1981.
Read this article in the original newspaper issue.
Original source: SD_Times1981_02.pdf, printed page(s) 7; PDF page(s) 7.
