No fear, it’s only
… whrrrrrr!
I tossed and turned for the third night in a row. I flattened my
pillow. I plumped up my pillow. I pulled it up over my head. I
turned to the right and then the left. Nothing was comfortable.
It’s finally come to this. It’s only been
… wait, I don’t even remember how long it’s been since I’ve been
to the dentist.
No fear, it’s only … whrrrrrr!
I tossed and turned for the third night in a row. I flattened my pillow. I plumped up my pillow. I pulled it up over my head. I turned to the right and then the left. Nothing was comfortable. It’s finally come to this. It’s only been … wait, I don’t even remember how long it’s been since I’ve been to the dentist.
The upper molar that once held a filling was reminding me that I should reacquaint myself with debating whether I should close my eyes while the dentist works in my open mouth or stare up at him, while the suction tube attempts to swallow the inside of my cheek.
I’ve been putting it off for well over a year since a freak corn nut accident dislodged a filling and broke my molar. Ever since, I have caught myself absently playing with the jagged remnants of the tooth with my tongue and trying to work stuck gum from its recesses every time I forget and chew on that side.
My teeth must show abnormal wear because I’ve been primarily using my left side to chew. It’s also a sudden jolt, when eating ice cream. I swear, if there was a way to lodge myself into the ceiling, that would be it.
For a while, it didn’t bother me. A longer while than I want to admit. I figured that if I didn’t feel it, nothing too serious could have happened.
But as I silently suffer, (if I were to awaken The Husband with all of my ineffectual flailing, I might get a resounding, “I told you so.” He’s been somewhat gently reminding me to go to the dentist for a while). I vow in the 2 a.m. stillness that I will finally schedule that long-overdue appointment.
My mind wanders as I lay on my back, since that seems to be the only spot that works. I think about the insurance card that The Husband gave me two nights ago, as I was making supper, to remind me to call the dentist and how I didn’t even glance at it as I was pulling out my credit card at the gas pump. I chastise myself. My mother would be so mad at me for neglecting the teeth she and my father spent good money on in the 1980s to fix. I can remember how happy I was when the years of no raw carrots, bubble gum or popcorn finally paid off and the braces came off. My Laura Ingalls Early-Years smile had given way to straighter teeth and a new Cheshire grin.
So, for the last week, I have been putting it off, in torment and popping Tylenol like PEZ.
I am noticing that the longer I wait, the worse it gets. Not the pain, although that’s a given, but the fear. The fear of the dentist. I find that strange, since I have given birth twice, had gall bladder surgery, and had a nasty attack of kidney stones. Every dentist appointment I have had, with the exception of this one coming up, I am sure, yielded no pain.
So, why this irrational fear of the dentist? It might be because I can remember hearing people always saying things like, “I’d rather have a root canal,” when referencing something traumatic like an impending visit from the in-laws or traffic school.
Judging by The Husband’s reaction to Family Holidays on this coast and my reaction to weekend suppers on the other coast, and the speeding ticket I got on Highway 25, I can understand a little bit about that saying. But I think when the dentist is coming at me a la Marathon Man, I might just wish I was on the other coast, attending traffic school. Or pulling my plumped up pillow over my head.
