Trips to the dentist are scary, even though people deny it.
People insert sharp objects into our mouths, poking and prodding. Even if it doesn't hurt, it seems like it will hurt.
As someone who routinely sweats through a shirt during a dental visit, a new dentist where Mrs. Brad and I now live seemed like an opportunity for a new start.
New people. New technology. Time to erase history.
The dentist scheduled me for an extra-long visit, citing the need for a full set of X-rays.
Dental X-rays haven't changed much since my childhood, back when there was no such thing as pediatric dentists and when we had to go to the cranky old man who routinely pulled our parents' teeth with pliers (I'm guessing on that last part).
During X-rays, they stick a sharp plastic torture device in your mouth, alternately gagging you and cutting up your mouth. They drape a 15-pound lead vest on you, line up the X-ray machine and scramble out of the room to avoid a toxic exposure to radiation.
My new dentist has a digital X-ray machine (probably not new, but new to me). A full set of X-rays meant putting the digitized plastic torture device–which was connected by a cord to the computer–in various places in my mouth. Front, back, side.
It went well.
One picture, adjustment.
Another picture, another adjustment.
Another picture, another adjustment.
I settled in, got comfortable. The X-ray technician re-adjusted the plastic torture device, I sat back, closed my eyes and . . . she tripped over the cord.
My head snapped forward like I was an unlucky fish.
She had tripped over the cord, yanking my head forward and catapulting the plastic torture device out of my mouth.
"Are you all right?" I asked, overcome by shock. I acted concerned about her safety.
She was more concerned about me. and to be honest, so was I. Had teeth been ejected? Was I bleeding? Did I have whiplash?
We checked and the answer was none of the above, so we continued. I survived the worst, right?
This dental office was high-tech. Clumsy, but high-tech. So what if I needed a dozen or so X-rays of my mouth? Things would be fine.
I was surviving the normally gag-inducing X-rays, perhaps because I was careful to breathe through my nose.
She took another picture, another adjustment. Another picture, another adjustment.
Now, she just needed to get the back teeth. She slid the torture device back in my mouth, left the room and . . . and . . .
Suddenly, there was an inhuman groan.
From me.
Was a demon escaping? My tongue involuntarily ejected the torture device as my eyes watered. I had gone from calm to gag to dry heave.
And what the heck was up with that otherworldly groan?
Having my head snapped forward by a clumsy X-ray tech suddenly seemed preferable.
I tried to wave it off.
"I'm OK," I said. "I don't know what happened." Which was true. (Again, from where did that sound emanate? Was as frightening to her as me?)
Unfortunately, the X-rays still needed to be finished. She gave me a pep talk and told me I could eject the torture device as soon as I heard the camera click. I psyched myself up, braced myself and . . . pulled it off.
The rest of the appointment went fine. They cleaned my teeth and I sweated less than normal. No cavities, no appointments needed for six months.
I left shaken, but determined. Other than having my head snapped forward and having an involuntary, inhuman growl emerge from my body, the dental trip was a success.
Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.
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