The Dentist

So, there I was, prostrate on the dentist’s chair (well actually I was neither face down nor on the ground, but I felt that I was more than just lying back, ya know what I mean?) and suddenly I realized what a grotesque view of the world this man must have.

I asked him a thought-provoking question related to something of interest to him in order to encourage him to carry on about something…

anything…

rather than ask me questions (causing him to quit his torturous actions, and remove his instruments for any amount of time, thus prolonging the agony) expecting me to respond.

He was waxing poetic about the fact that most of his clients have a natural reflex with their tongues and that they can close off their throats with them and that every once in a while he has a patient gag, you know, that kind of stuff, when he took his right index finger and pulled my lower lip down in a position to which I hope it never becomes accustomed, and began chipping away at the inevitable plaque buildup on the lower front teeth …

…and I wondered what kind of an image he has of me should he ever think of me during the six months of our separation.

See, I know he remembers me, I looked in his folder and he doesn’t have personal notes there and his memory is sketchy so he doesn’t have something he reviews before I come in or he would have exact recall. (I know because I had another doctor who did that.) But he remembers about my son’s fantastic accomplishments, he knows I’m a grandma, he remembers I don’t like x-rays.

So, knowing that he sees me with my face in contortions as he works on me, I wonder if he thinks I’m not bad looking for an old broad, or if he remembers me with my mouth pulled back and a little spittle on my cheek, yuk.

And another thing. How much saliva do you have to accumulate in your mouth before a dentist leaning over you, with your lips grotesquely pulled out of shape, looking right down into that vast expanse that was your mouth a few minutes before (and hopefully will be again soon) notices the accumulating liquid and uses that horrid little sucking machine to clear it out so you don’t drown? It feels like a gallon of water resting on your throat and he doesn’t even notice—I had to lift my head and give him the eye signal, like something from Sienfeld, that I needed help NOW. I couldn’t talk, if I did my tongue would have another spontaneous movement away from my throat and then I might drown.

Sheeeeez,

Well, at least I don’t have any cavities and my 60 year old baby tooth is still intact. (It has actually become part of the bone and that is called ankylose—learn somethin’ new every day)