The Dentist

I read the other day that the top three things that cause stress in regular people like you and I are filling out tax forms, entertaining in their homes, and going to the dentist.

Let's focus on this dentist thing, because nothing strikes fear into the hearts of most self-assured men and women than going to the dentist.

If you're anything like me, a couple of days before the appointment my whole world falls apart. I experience loss of coordination, loss of appetite, and a feeling of inadequacy. I remember being told as a kid;an apple a day keeps the dentist away. Why didn't I listen to my parents?

If you're new at visiting the dentist, you probably make your first appointment in the morning because you don't know any better. If you're an experienced dentist-goer like me, an appointment later in the day is always preferable; the dentist may get sick and have to go home early before you get there.

Then comes that fateful day. A day you will long remember, and your dentist will soon forget. After brushing my teeth for an hour, trying to make up for lost time, I head to the dentist office. Once you open the door to the office the rush of senses reminds you why you don't like this place. They hurt people here.

I take a seat next to the squirmy little brat whose mom thinks it's cute that he's hitting my knee with his toy truck. Don't these people realize who I am? Don't they realize that a man sitting in a dentist's office has to be at the ready at all times - no distractions. We don't really read the magazines - we just look at the pictures. (Ever notice how hard it is to find great pictures in the Readers Digest?)

And what do we do when we're looking at the pictures? We're using our sense of smell to see if anyone has died recently. Hmmm. PineSol, alcohol, Radon 43, smell of burning rubber, some sort of gas, and the little brat sitting next to me who has dirty pants. No dead guy smells though.

A good part of all this as I'm sitting in the waiting room with my teeth and gums aching from lack of quality floss time, reading some 6 month old magazines - is that I invariably pick up new information. "Wow. I didn't know Jimmy Stewart had died!"

You know what else we do while we're looking at the pictures? We listen. The sounds will kill a person if nothing else will. The kind of noise a finely crafted, precision, high speed drill makes at 93,000 RPM is something I once thought was banned in most countries.

Over the noise of the MolarCruncher Industrial 392 Drill, I hear a noise similar to gurgling sound a person makes when they are being gagged; then I realize it's only the simple sound of Mr. Suction doing his job.

Thoughts of better days quickly cross my mind. Thoughts of pretty flowers. Ocean waves crashing in slow motion. Of my days in elementary school when all the kids used to like me. I can hear my parents telling me how proud they were of me. I remember my first date, my first kiss, the first drag race, my first drive alone after getting my driver's license. My first perfect bead with the acetylene set. But my thoughts are cut off with the words, "Bob, you can come in, now."

OK, here we go. My life is now passing quickly before my eyes. I realize I don't have a will. I forgot to put out the garbage. The little strip of molding will never get put back on in the bedroom. Who will make lunch for the kids? And the dogs! And the cats! (sad when a guy thinks about dogs and cats when he's heading to the chair).

I finally get to the chair of death. I sit down without looking around, careful not to get too nosey with the dentists tools he has lined up for me. A person certainly should never ask, "what do you use that for?" He may just reply with "Here, let me show you!" Ohhhh the agony. Burn me with oil. Run over my legs with a tractor. Make me watch the 3 and 4 year old kids during Sunday School. Make me gather the eggs. But don't use that tool on me!

Then a bright white light envelopes you. This must be it. I'm coming, Lord. Here I come. But it turns out to be the spot light that is carefully designed not to shine in my eyes. The industrial strength,10-ply bib comes on, attached by someone behind me using number 29 alligator clips to secure it around my neck.

Here I come, Lord. I'm all yours. Please save me from this wretched butcher who is about to do bodily harm to your humble servant. SMITE HIM LORD.

Oh, sorry; didn't mean to get carried away.

Two heads peek over me as I squirm to get comfortable on this, my last day on earth. A shopping spree at the Coulee City Hardware Store sounds pretty good right about now as the dentist says "Open wide."

I realize I'll never learn how to use a wood planer; I'll never become a real farmer and grow cool things like wheat or barley or rye or weeds; I'll never again be able to cringe when I hear Bob Tallman announcing the NFR. But on the bright side, no more waiting at stop lights, or shopping with the slow people at Christmas.

The whir of activity intensifies. Mr. Suction is working overtime, and a little round mirror comes to visit, along with several drop-forged diamond tipped tools designed to do great enamel damage.

I strain to hear the banter between the One Who Kills and the One Who Kill's Helper over the whirr of the drill. Words like, "...no, that will never work."' Or, "…oh,oh, Susie. We've got trouble here!"

Of course the worst is when the One Who Kills says to the One Who Kills' Helper, "Suzie, would you call Mr. Smith and see if he can delay coming in. Since Bob has been a sinner and let his teeth go to pot we're going to be working on him for some time yet."

You drift off to remember how nice the lady on the phone was who made your appointment. It was only for 45 minutes. How much could they hurt me in 45 minutes? But today, the little known and little used 'extension clause' has just kicked in and totally goofed up my minds' schedule of death.

The sound of the MolarCruncher Industrial 392 Drill pierces the air and the One Who Kills says, as he's carving Mt. Rushmore out of my number 4 molar, "Well Bob, it's great to see you! How are things going?

I reply with a cheery, nice guy, "sdfsddflj;lskdfsssdfoisuoiwerposfdjfslff." Which of course is gagging language for "fine. Just fine. Thanks for asking."