My Living Nightmare
I hate going to the dentist. I hate having people's hands in my mouth. I hate the sounds of drills and metal instruments scraping against my teeth. It's like listening to fingernails scraping a chalkboard repeatedly, only worse because it is inside my head. I hate feeling like I'm going to either suffocate or drown because my nose is congested and I can't breathe through my mouth because it's full of water that I either don't want to or can't swallow. I hate the odor like burning dust as they polish and scrape away at the enamel on my teeth.
I have uncomfortable memories of seeing orthodontists, of having to wear metal bars in my mouth, attached by rubber bands to a sort of cap on my head, and I remember being mocked at school when I wore it there because I had to wear it for so many hours a day, and it was uncomfortable to sleep on it. I remember how much my teeth and jaw ached for weeks whenever they changed anything. I remember the braces, the bands on my teeth that scraped the insides of my cheeks raw and the horrid taste of plaster as they made imprints to see how my teeth had moved over time.
I had my wisdom teeth removed when I was twenty in preparation to be a missionary, and that was the last time I let anyone's hands into my mouth for a very, very long time.
I know that people are supposed to go to the dentist regularly, but the very thought of sitting in a dentist's chair, of hearing the drills, of having my mouth numbed and manipulated set me shaking and trembling. I couldn't do it. Five years passed. Then ten years. I had another reason to dread seeing a dentist then - I didn't want to be chastised for not having been to a dentist in so long, and I dreaded the state that I imagined my teeth must be in.
Occasionally I would talk to a dentist. I would ask how difficult it would be for them to remove the permanent retainer on my bottom teeth, a bar connected by bands around my lower canines. "Oh, I couldn't remove it!" They would say. "Your teeth might move again!" But the bands scrape my cheeks and give me canker sores. And then one side got lose and would slide around. That couldn't be good. "I can cement that back down for you." The dentist would say. But I want it out! They wouldn't do it. I wouldn't go see them in their office.
Steven started going regularly a few years ago. He started making appointments for our poor dentally neglected children. He took them the first time or two. But then he started asking me if I could take them so he wouldn't have to take the time off work. I would have to take deep breaths and brace myself, but I would take them, make sure they were checked in, and then leave, coming back for them when they were done. Being in the office and hearing the drills in the background made me edgy and made my hands shake.
But then one time Peter was having a difficult time and they asked me to come back with him. What could I say? I went back, with heart racing and hands shaking and I held Peter's stuffed animal while the hygienist did her thing. It was a relief to escape from the building. But that was a first. Six months later it happened again, and again six months after that. Finally, earlier this year, I braced myself enough to ask for an appointment for myself.
That first appointment was horrible. Twenty plus years without seeing a dentist are not good for one's teeth. I was shaking and trying desperately not to go into a panic, striving not to show the hygienists how very terrified I was. They took xrays and talked about cleaning and fillings and crowns, although I don't think they actually did anything other than the xrays at that visit. I had to make an appointment to come back, and then another, and another.
Yesterday they were supposed to take care of the last things they discovered on that first visit. They would do some fillings on the second half of my mouth, and they were *finally* going to take off the permanent retainer, and replace it with something removable. I watched "Moana" through the gaps between their hands as they pried and drilled and filled and polished and flossed. I tried desperately to breathe while my nose was stuffy and my mouth was held open in an awkward position by some plastic gadget, and filling with saliva. More than once I wondered if I would suffocate or drown first.
Eventually they were done. My mouth was a bit numb still and feeling gritty and sore, but at least I could breathe again. And they were done! But that's when they gave me the bad news. They removed the retainer only to discover that one of my teeth has been happily rotting away beneath the band that held the retainer down. I'm looking at another crown, possibly even a root canal, and a big expense because I've already maxed out my dental insurance for the year, and it can't wait until next year to be fixed. The dentist seemed surprised that the tooth hasn't been causing me pain. I wanted to cry. Why couldn't I have gotten it taken out years ago?!!!!
Did I mention that I hate going to the dentist?
I have uncomfortable memories of seeing orthodontists, of having to wear metal bars in my mouth, attached by rubber bands to a sort of cap on my head, and I remember being mocked at school when I wore it there because I had to wear it for so many hours a day, and it was uncomfortable to sleep on it. I remember how much my teeth and jaw ached for weeks whenever they changed anything. I remember the braces, the bands on my teeth that scraped the insides of my cheeks raw and the horrid taste of plaster as they made imprints to see how my teeth had moved over time.
I had my wisdom teeth removed when I was twenty in preparation to be a missionary, and that was the last time I let anyone's hands into my mouth for a very, very long time.
I know that people are supposed to go to the dentist regularly, but the very thought of sitting in a dentist's chair, of hearing the drills, of having my mouth numbed and manipulated set me shaking and trembling. I couldn't do it. Five years passed. Then ten years. I had another reason to dread seeing a dentist then - I didn't want to be chastised for not having been to a dentist in so long, and I dreaded the state that I imagined my teeth must be in.
Occasionally I would talk to a dentist. I would ask how difficult it would be for them to remove the permanent retainer on my bottom teeth, a bar connected by bands around my lower canines. "Oh, I couldn't remove it!" They would say. "Your teeth might move again!" But the bands scrape my cheeks and give me canker sores. And then one side got lose and would slide around. That couldn't be good. "I can cement that back down for you." The dentist would say. But I want it out! They wouldn't do it. I wouldn't go see them in their office.
Steven started going regularly a few years ago. He started making appointments for our poor dentally neglected children. He took them the first time or two. But then he started asking me if I could take them so he wouldn't have to take the time off work. I would have to take deep breaths and brace myself, but I would take them, make sure they were checked in, and then leave, coming back for them when they were done. Being in the office and hearing the drills in the background made me edgy and made my hands shake.
But then one time Peter was having a difficult time and they asked me to come back with him. What could I say? I went back, with heart racing and hands shaking and I held Peter's stuffed animal while the hygienist did her thing. It was a relief to escape from the building. But that was a first. Six months later it happened again, and again six months after that. Finally, earlier this year, I braced myself enough to ask for an appointment for myself.
That first appointment was horrible. Twenty plus years without seeing a dentist are not good for one's teeth. I was shaking and trying desperately not to go into a panic, striving not to show the hygienists how very terrified I was. They took xrays and talked about cleaning and fillings and crowns, although I don't think they actually did anything other than the xrays at that visit. I had to make an appointment to come back, and then another, and another.
Yesterday they were supposed to take care of the last things they discovered on that first visit. They would do some fillings on the second half of my mouth, and they were *finally* going to take off the permanent retainer, and replace it with something removable. I watched "Moana" through the gaps between their hands as they pried and drilled and filled and polished and flossed. I tried desperately to breathe while my nose was stuffy and my mouth was held open in an awkward position by some plastic gadget, and filling with saliva. More than once I wondered if I would suffocate or drown first.
Eventually they were done. My mouth was a bit numb still and feeling gritty and sore, but at least I could breathe again. And they were done! But that's when they gave me the bad news. They removed the retainer only to discover that one of my teeth has been happily rotting away beneath the band that held the retainer down. I'm looking at another crown, possibly even a root canal, and a big expense because I've already maxed out my dental insurance for the year, and it can't wait until next year to be fixed. The dentist seemed surprised that the tooth hasn't been causing me pain. I wanted to cry. Why couldn't I have gotten it taken out years ago?!!!!
Did I mention that I hate going to the dentist?
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