Revenge of the Dentist

by Ben Small


I know why people shy away from dentists, professionally and socially. You don't want to get too close to those guys. They know pain; they inflict it.

You know the anticipatory sensations of an upcoming appointment: a slick sweat across the forehead; the stomach that just won't settle; those last few moments sitting in your car when you calculate any number of fake excuses only to realize nobody will believe you.

Face it: You're chicken, just like me. No dentists, thank you. I don't want no lolipops.

Not long ago, I reported on my ailing tooth problem, the filling which fell out and finally started throbbing on a Friday with no dentists working until Monday. I reported how I called a dentist only to discover he was skiing in Colorado, and that he suggested a temporary filling from Walgreen's until I could see him the next week.

Well, I saw him, and he scraped away the Walgreen's junk that had hardened around my teeth like some form of smooth cement, and squashed in his own temporary junk, then set me up for another appointment when he'd provide a permanent solution.

It's all about more appointments, you know, more fees to do the same thing he could have done a month ago. And no doubt, my dentist wanted me to sweat, to think about that big drill for a month or so.

I know this because during my first visit, when my dentist wasn't laughing at my predicament, he was twirling drilling irons and blood napkins like a cheerleader with a flag-draped baton and cackling like a mad Lawrence Olivier poised with a Black & Decker in a shaky hand.

Okay, so Olivier didn't cackle, just asked, "Is it safe?" Still, Olivier left me this impression, so ingrained in my throbbing jaw that every time I visit a dentist,  I look for chair-straps and a head-vice.

Well, tomorrow is the day of reckoning, and I'm busy arranging all my affairs, anticipating it may be a while -- if ever -- before I have another fear-free, clear-headed day. Post traumatic stress, you know. Yes, it's been known to happen to dental patients.

Another reason nobody likes dentists.

My sister is married to a dentist. Now, her husband has always been nice to me, but I do get an eerie feeling whenever I see him. Perhaps, it's because he always recommends a dentist whether I need one or not, then chuckles to himself each time I stare back at him.

"Painless," they say.

Right. Doc Holliday said the same thing, but instead of Novocaine, Doc used a Derringer to put his patients out of their misery. If they awoke, the pain of an aching tooth was nothing compared to a hole in the chest.

So I've developed a game-plan for tomorrow. First, I'll pop a couple Vicodin an hour before the appointment, followed by a maximum dose of Naproxin. Pain and inflammation anxiety: the tools to prevention -- maybe...

Okay, I'll add some Xanax.

Then, I'll hit the vodka bottle. Old timers used booze to null the pain of amputations. This combo -- if it doesn't kill me -- should work for an extraction, root canal, or thorough cleaning, don'cha think?

Of course, there's another advantage to this approach: If I get pulled over for DUI or pass out and go to the Emergency Room in an ambulance, that's an excuse any dentist will accept and I'll have a written record to prove it.

Or maybe this guy is really evil, and he'll check my temporary filling, tell me he's too busy, pass a cleaning pic over my pearlies, and schedule me for yet another visit, thereby ratcheting up the fear factor and the post traumatic stress for yet another period of weeks while finding another way to bill an extra appointment.

Now, I must admit, I'm not a total coward. I can take a needle. But someone poised just over my delicate facial features with a jack-hammer so big it must be held in two hands, with a whirling, buzzing blade that to my ear -- eyes, jaw and forehead too -- vibrates like a Norelco electric razor amplified so it's like I'm inside a cranked up Bose, well, the thought just terrifies me.

And meanwhile, some hairy-armed assistant that may have once been on the East German female shotputting team thirty years ago is reaching for my jaw, saying as sweetly as possible for someone with such a large Adam's Apple, "Now, open up, you."

I think of Rosa Klebb, the shoe-blade.

Then, when the procedure actually begins, and smoke rises in a white plume from my open and defenseless mouth, I think about my tongue.

My tongue. Where is it supposed to go? There's a war going on inside my mouth: shrapnel spraying, heat rising...

Did I mention the smoke?

How do I protect a tongue I can't see, touch or feel?

I panic.

And that's where the leather straps come in. I've seen them before. They leave welts, you know.

Since I didn't see straps on my first visit to this guy, I suspect he uses the Auto-Strap, a hidden robotic device that's the latest in dental office supplies. I saw an ADTA (American Dental Torture Association) catalog in the waiting room.

So tomorrow, I get strapped in and discover just how pissed my dentist really was that I called him during his vacation.

And this may be the last you hear of me...

My Tooth Is Killing...You

by Ben Small

Why do serious toothaches always seem to strike when no dentist is available?

It began so innocently, a bit of grit on my tongue. Probing with a pinky, I pulled out a bit of something that looked like metal. I'd gone shooting that day and wondered if somehow I'd injected a piece of torn cartridge. But I'd been shooting rifles, not pistols, and all my rifle cartridges are made of brass. Besides, I hadn't felt anything, and torn cartridges are rare, a sign of catastrophic failure -- the kind that kills people. There'd been no pool of blood in the dirt.

That was Thursday. Friday, about Noon, my tongue found a new edge on a molar. As it rolled over its ivory neighbors, savoring last vestiges of double cheeseburger, my tongue caught a snag.

Had I lost a filling? Goodness, I've only had three and all are over fifty years old. I'd forgotten I had them.

I found a magnifying mirror and opened my mouth. Perfect pearlies on the upper, the Grand Canyon on a lower.

Uh oh.

But no pain whatsoever. Nada.

So I'd worry about it later. My toofers are so good, I haven't seen a dentist in years, two states away. Gum disease? Not me. Why have a dentist when I can do whitening myself? Indeed, the only dentist I know these days is my brother in law, who's actually a periodontist, and he's three thousand miles away. He once opened my mouth, hopeful of a windfall, then closed it again with a frustrated obscenity, telling me to go away.

So I blew it off, figured I'd worry about it sometime next week...or month. What harm could it do? To my knowledge, I hadn't swallowed any of that metal. Besides, I had more important things to do. Indiana was playing arch-rival and No.1 ranked Kentucky the next day. Why worry about teeth? Kentuckians don't have any.

So, at 4 P.M. on Friday, the pain began, at first subtle as I sipped some cold pop. But then it grew. In an hour, I'd transformed from a genial giant to a raging Cujo. The pain moved from my tooth, now raised by swelling underneath, to my head. Even my eyes hurt. And a lump stood out on the side of my face.

A friend called, to make sure the game's invite was still on. I growled at him, said he'd best wear Kevlar.

Frantically, I pulled out the yellow pages, turned to the Ds. Scanned ad after ad. Discovered dentists don't work on Saturdays. Heck, most didn't work on Fridays.

I called my doctor, desperate for a pain-killer. Maybe Demerol, something strong. He'd closed up for the weekend.

Then I remembered I had some Hydrocodone somewhere. I went searching, pulling out drawers, overturning furniture like the FBI conducting a search warrant on a serial killer's residence. I found the container under a chair, covered in dust-bunnies. Two pills left, I guzzled them without water, because water's cold and cold was my enemy. Hell, even breathing sent cold shock waves through my jaw, eyes  and head.

That damn tooth.

I eyed my Culver saber, wondered if I could wedge it under my tooth and pop it out. Decided to defer. Too much collateral damage for first choice.

How could I last until Monday, when I could make an appointment? And could I get an appointment? I don't know any dentists in Tucson.

So I called a friend, asked him for the name of his dentist. Asked what he thought it would cost me to bribe that guy to come in NOW.  He gave me the name and number, then asked me how much money I have.

I snapped at him, warned him, too, to wear Kevlar.

You don't piss off Cujo.

I called the dentist, and surprise! his recorded message offered an emergency number. I dialed it. Actually got him on the phone.

About then, the Hydrocodone hit, like a blast-wave of ahhhhh. Yeah, I still felt the pain, but I no longer cared. I could cut off my arm and wave it around laughing.

Slurring my words now, I told the dentist my problem. He asked a few questions, to ensure, I guess, that I wasn't just some drunk pulling a tease, then told me he'd take care of me right away...on Monday.

Monday? 

I had no more painkillers. How would I last that long? Hell, by Monday, I'd be on a tower somewhere, shooting at anything that moved. Or I'd have turned to that saber after all.

He said my biggest worry was infection, that he'd prescribe some antibiotics.

I corrected him. No, my biggest problem was the pain.
Do not forget the pain.

The dentist laughed. He actually laughed. I wondered how funny he'd find my AR-15 stuck in his mouth.

He told me he was skiing in Colorado, wouldn't be back until Monday. I think I offered to charter a jet, but I'm not sure. The Hydrocodone, remember.

He told me I likely had both an exposed root and an infection. He said the antibiotic would handle the infection, and that I could buy some temporary filling material at the pharmacy that would cover the root. The pain would magically disappear. He'd see me Monday.

While I can't exactly remember, I think I said something about his mother around then. Temporary filling? Yeah, sure, that'll work. Y'or momma!

But it did work. And the pain disappeared, sparing the lives of many. And the Hoosiers beat No. 1 Kentucky, no teeth and all.

Cujo is at rest.

Now all I gotta worry about is how much that mother insult will cost me...