Letter 10: On Dentistry

Photo by Umanoide on Unsplash

You’ve barely entered the office but your teeth are already clenched in anticipation of their impending examination. Various pangs and aches keep appearing, catalyzed by the hyperawareness that develops around an object you wish most to ignore.  

You arrive at the dentist’s chair and arrange yourself carefully on the beige pleather so as to mitigate the charge of static that it is sure to generate on your clothing. You are preparing for a long and painful voyage. The electric whirring initiates and you begin your descent, the tension in your back causing you to lag slightly behind the movement of the chair. You remind yourself to relax into the chair and finally make full contact.

The hygienist places a paper bib around your neck to catch any sprays and dribbles, like a footman arranging a napkin for a senile aristocrat. You lie silently, prepared to obediently heed her commands.

The interrogation lamp flicks on overhead and floods your face. Let’s see what we have here, the hygienist mutters as she peers into your mouth. Is that derision that you hear in her voice? Goodness knows what she sees, or what kind of masochistic tendencies propel her to spend her days gazing into the steaming caverns of strangers’ mouths.

Any pain? Sensitivity? Anything out of place? she asks. Out of place? you repeat to yourself, alarmed. Some sensitivity, you whisper. Lies and deflections seem futile while your interrogator wields metal instruments within your mouth.

Do you… she says in a low, serious voice, ever drink coffee or tea? You brace against the accusation. She might as well have asked if you were a perpetrator of war crimes in the Balkans. How can you admit to this depravity? What kind of animal are you to consume coffee and tea? You consider lying but you’re certain she can see the evidence of your transgressions written across your teeth. Sometimes, you manage to reply. She says nothing and continues to scrape. The rasp of the dental pick against your teeth reverberates throughout your skull – isn’t this the antithesis of proper dental care? You expect to close your mouth at the end of this all and feel a heap of pebbles where your teeth were once rooted.

But you are a stoic, your hands carefully placed out of the line of sight of the hygienist so that when she hits a particularly tender spot along your gumline she doesn’t see you grip the edge of the chair for dear life while the rest of you remains impassive.  

The dentist comes in for her flying visit to rattle off the final prognoses. You feel shame as she speaks; your physical flaws are clearly evidence of a great moral failing. What is my penance! you’re prepared to cry out in an open-palmed lament, but all you can manage is a guttural croak as you remain bound by the various tubes shuttling water and air and saliva to and fro.  

Thanks for reading. See you next week.