I’m more fascinated than scared by the supernatural. I love going into places that are supposedly
haunted. I delight in the idea that
there might be creatures like Bigfoot or the Loch Ness monster prowling
about. I devour UFO-sightings with great
voraciousness. I want to see a ghost,
mythical beast, or an alien in the worst way.
Such things don’t inspire fear, just a nervous thrill of anticipation.
Yet the other day I was shaking in my shoes. I had a dentist appointment and it made my
stomach roil. Yep, you could set me
among spirits, sasquatches, and E.T.s and I’d be fine. But going to the dentist or doctor? Oh hell no.
It’s so bad that I wait until I’m in great misery before I’ll venture
to even look up a name in a phone directory.
Then it might take me two or three weeks before I finally make an
appointment. I visit doctors and dentists
so seldom that the last one I saw is usually retired or dead. We are talking body shaking, hands sweating,
nausea-inducing dread here. I’m
downright phobic about it.
The last time I saw a dentist, things had progressed drastically. I ended up with four cavities filled, four
old fillings replaced, and a root canal.
I am cursed with bad dental genetics from my father’s side. He and my brother have had many problems with
their teeth. I know I should get regular
checkups. Brushing, flossing, and fluoride
rinses used religiously cannot save my poor choppers. Yet, I can’t make myself visit the dentist
until I have throbbing pain that keeps me from sleep.
I’d reached that point again. I
knew a tooth was in trouble, possibly to the point of being yanked out (because
this girl is not having another root canal even if it means a checkerboard
smile). Tylenol was getting gobbled up
faster than the leftover Halloween candy.
Yet the last thing in this world I wanted to do is climb in that
torture-chamber chair, have the light shined in my mouth, and see the dentist
tally up her winnings from my oral agony.
Dr. Frankenteeth was rubbing her hands together in anticipation.
Okay, so maybe Dr. Barbara wasn’t the mad scientist-type after
all. In fact, she was a very pleasant
gal, brilliant conversationalist, and all-around perfect dentist to hold the
hand of paranoid me. She dealt with my
crazed phobia with the aplomb of a person who’d seen it all. She told me of big, strong construction
workers who’d fainted dead away in the hall before they’d even set eyes on the
chair from which their teeth would be drilled and filled.
And I had no cavities. No need
for tooth yanking. My issue might have
been from the fact I grind my teeth in my sleep, the ill-adjusted crown in my
mouth (which Dr. Barbara painlessly fixed in a matter of seconds), or my pesky
sinuses recovering from last week’s cold.
It could have been a combination of these things. In short, I freaked out over a lot of
nothing.
Oh twisted Fate, why have you delivered me a horror of oral vigilance rather
than of things that go bump in the night?
Why does just a checkup inspire such dread? Why is it that having cavities filled is the
height of torture for me? Did I run
around punching people in their mouths in a past life? Is this some kind of toothy karma? And why hasn’t Stephen King written a novel
about a supernatural killer dentist yet?
Surely that belongs up there with demons, possessed hotels, and
vampires. Dr. Barbara seems awesome on
the surface, but is there some hideous beast dwelling beneath that sweet smile
and gentle jibes to get my teeth cleaned more regularly? Oh, I think I see the evil that’s truly
waiting, biding its time until I am rendered defenseless under happy gas and
metal torture devices glint at the ready inside my mouth.
However, I have dodged the immediate torment. Maybe I’ll get lucky and the world will end
before early next month when I have to face the cleaning Dr. Barbara talked me into.
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