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| June/July
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Winners,
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"Go
To The Dentist? I'd Rather Have A Baby!"
By Cindy Dwyer,
Guilford CT
Finalist
When I was in labor with our son, my husband turned to me, gently wiped the damp strands of hair out of my eyes and asked, “Is this really better than being at the dentist?”
“Yes,” I gasped before the pain took my breath, and voice, away. In case it isn’t obvious, I hate going to the dentist more than anything.
And, to be fair, I really like my dentist. If we passed each other on the street and he suddenly burst into flame, I would gladly spit on him. As a person, a fellow human being, he is very nice. But as soon as he sits in that squeaky little stool and scoots close to my face, I have to fight an unbelievable urge to poke him right in the eye. And I suspect he knows this. I think that is the real reason he has begun wearing those eye goggles.
I also suspect that in addition to “Crowns, Bridges and Root Canals: The Relationship between Pain and Profit”, dentists take classes in guilt, taught by my mother. In fact, I am convinced that the very first dentist was actually a little old Italian Grandmother.
“So, you finally come to visit? It’s been eight months.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Work was so busy I had to cancel my last appointment.” Then I try a little guilt of my own, “I couldn’t get another appointment for two months.”
Reverse guilt doesn’t work. It’s only held against you - very Italian.
“Oh, so it’s my fault you haven’t been here? I can’t help it that other patients take their appointments seriously. Work’s too busy to come in for a simple 30 minute appointment?”
“Mmg uck bobock,” I mumble around the various fingers and instruments in my mouth.
“Well, that plaque certainly has built up, hasn’t it?”
“Uuh, incunk,” I mumble.
“How often do you floss?” He interrogates. Hoping to hide behind a third incoherent mumble I am horrified when he removes all fingers and instruments from my mouth and simply stares at me, awaiting my response. Even the water pick goes silent as the hygienist also stares me down.
“Well, you know…some, “ I answer sheepishly.
“Some? How many times a week is ‘some’?” He demands.
The silence is so complete I’d swear I was the star in the newest E.F. Hutton commercial.
“Well, probably not as often as I should,” I admit. I can practically hear the receptionist’s gasp in the outer office.
The dentist sighs and sticks his fingers back into my mouth. For a moment I am actually relieved to have them there. But then I jerk as he stabs me with one of his torture devices.
“See? Look how your gums bleed,” He sighs again. The hygienist can only shake her head in dismay.
It’s weird. They don’t bleed when I’m home not flossing, only when I am sitting in his office as he terrorizes my gums with a sharp metal pick. While he rants on about the devastating effects of gum disease and tooth decay I think back upon happier times – like being in labor.
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