Everyone is entitled to a fear. To some, possibly "fears".
I grew up with Dental Phobia. Sue me. I should have outgrown this. But unlike my other phobias, nothing comes close to my hell in a Dental Office.
I can even smell that fear. A mix of minty, amalgamated gum base scent. Yuch! The mere suggestion of the aroma chills me and makes my heart fibrillate.
It would take tons of persuasion, a national election, massive toothaches, at least 3 overdoses from painkillers and partial incapacity, to drag me back into a dental chair. I used to call a Dental Office, the original Torture Chamber. Fine, so I lied, I still call it a Torture Chamber to-date.
A Dentist's Office can go totally art deco and nouveau, even state of the art with colours in lovely purple and lilac tones. But the principles remain the same. Its still a world of pain.
Fairly recently, I have this one molar that I have tried to completely ignore for a lifetime, and since it has been a cause of sleepless nights and too much pain, after a thorough consultation with the voices in my head, I relented. I lost the great deliberation, and armed with courage, I decided I needed this to be looked into, by a professional. By professional, I mean the "hangman", the death squad itself, a Dentist.
I could be really unfair with that statement because there are a lot of nice people, good people even, who make their honest living in the practice of Dentistry and Orthodontics. However the minute they put on that "work face" and white coat, I start feeling extremely nauseated, I sweat profusely, I cough uncontrollably, and die a little. Besides going to a Dentist these days (with or without Insurance) is one hell of an expensive ride. You are cut down to just 2 choices; to die in the chair or die due to the cost. I could buy great looking shoes with the amount I pay this lyncher. But it can't be that bad. After all it's just one nasty molar.
I spoke too soon, after my entire mouth was violated by cold steel metals, drills and detectors, the assassin told me there were several other molars that needed to be attended to. You see here, when you have your mouth gagged and braced, you don't really have a lot of coherent responses, except but "nod" or "shake" your head. And to that pesty little molar, the witch actually told me it was worth saving with a tooth cap, but this would require a "root canal".
I don't know about you, but I went into a stupor. An eff-ing root canal??? I have never had one and I never imagined I needed to go through one in this lifetime; plus, I have heard of all the horrors and drudgery associated with it. Needless to say, when you're catatonic, the Dentist can pretty much abuse you, not that I didn't feel I was already being abused, but I can go to the extreme of feeling that I was being sexually assaulted.
I would like to believe I am a good person, so I will spare you the gory details of my execution. In a nutshell, my meeting with the hang-woman (I have a female dentist who looks every inch like the wicked Witch from the West with more excess pounds and wrinkles); went from one innocent consultation visit to 11 more. 12 agonizing, excruciating, tormenting and unbearable dental appointments.
On the 12th day, (no, it did not look like Christmas morning at all) the witch-Dentist told me I need to be back 3 months after to have a dental check-up. She did not realize she was talking to a shell. My soul had long left my body from the second visit onwards. By then, I had already acquired an auditory impairment along with losing the rest of my sensory faculties.
I could be all grown up and rationalize where my dental phobia started. As a matter of fact, I still remember that gloomy dark past of my life. Except that I have buried this way too deep into the recesses of my core, that to discuss this now, will release all the ghosts and skeletons I have long kept in that room.
I resolved never to see that executioner again. I took an oath to floss regularly; to use every product developed by dental care experts to remove plaque or whatever else there is that needs to be removed, and swore, on my grandmother's tomb, that I will keep my teeth healthy and white. Oh sure, if I need to, I still have to go through the dental check up anyway. I just need to find a less wicked gun-man or gun-lady, and once my basic faculties are back, I can gather enough grit to go through a torture chamber again.
Oh by the way, I am sorry to burst your bubble. But there are no tooth fairies. It's only a myth. A lousy one at that. There are real tooth witches and warlocks. Fairies? Phooey!