The Voices In My Head: O'Riley's World, the column

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THE BEST OF O'RILEY'S WORLD, THE COLUMN

The Dental Disaster

Tim O'Riley

The other day I was having lunch with my old pal Larry when the conversation turned, as it always does, to his work. Larry, who has never been a particularly upbeat person (imagine a corpse on Prozac), looked especially dour this day and I knew why. I also knew that I really wasn't in the mood to listen to his lament, but the obligation of friendship and the fact that he was buying lunch overruled my natural talent to be apathetic. It was like pulling teeth, but eventually I asked him what was wrong.

"My job's just so depressing," Larry said, bowing his head as if the weight of the world rested atop his balding crown. He picked at a patch of dried ketchup on the table between us with his thumbnail and let go a heavy sigh. "I try to be nice, you know. I go out of my way to get people to like me, but it's just no use. Everybody hates me."

"They do not."

"They do," he whined. "Just this morning I had a woman tell me that she'd rather get hit by a truck than ever see me again."

"Larry, come on," I said, poking at his arm. "You know how hard women are to please (NOTE TO ALL FEMALES: this comment was made purely for Larry's benefit and not meant to be construed as sexist. Thanks, babe).

"I know that," Larry said, covering his eyes. "But this woman was my mother. Why does everybody hate dentists, Tim? Why?"

Poor Larry. He takes little solice in the fact that he's one of the highest paid dentists in town. Or in the fact that he lives in a huge house and drives a new BMW and wears enough gold jewelry to finance the national debt. Why should he care about what people think about him personally or about his profession as a whole, so long as they continue to come see him and support his expensive tastes? I guess money can't buy happiness. Still, it can make one heck of a down payment.

Pouring Larry into his Beemer and watching him drive away to his one o'clock appointment (root canal: thirty minutes: three hundred bucks) got me to thinking about his plight. Why do people hate dentists? Why does the very thought of going to the dentist cause even the strongest person's skin to crawl? Why would people rather sit through an IRS audit than in a dentist's chair? Why does the sound of a dentist's drill cause the average person's bladder to quake? Why do men with large hands go into dentistry? And finally, why do we have to pay to have someone poke around in our mouths? Surely, in this wide world of wackos, there's someone out there who'll do it for free.

I have to admit, I'm not crazy about dentists either. I am, however, nuts about laughing gas. If there's one thing Larry should be proud of it's the fact that he has the best gas in town. When I'm on it, he can do whatever he likes to me, as long as he doesn't touch that valve.

"I'm going to have to remove the top of your head to get to that tooth, Tim," Larry could say, frowning to let me know how serious the situation was.

"That's fine, Lar," I'd slur, attempting to make the "OK" sign with a hand that was no longer attached to my arm. "Anything you say. Could you turn the gas up a little? I can still feel my feet."

My personal lack of affection for dentists started early. I was pretty lucky with my teeth when I was a kid. I never had them knocked out at ball practice or by the neighborhood bully. Of course, that was probably because I spent most of my time indoors, which ended up being my downfall. My first dental disaster happened when I was three, in the living room of my family's home.

I'm told that I was a rambunctious kid. I'm not certain what "rambunctious" means, but that's the adjective used most by my mother when describing me as a lad. It's odd, saying the word "rambunctious" makes her grit her teeth even to this day. I wonder why.

One day I was playing on an old piano that sat in our living room. I was at the keyboard, playing like the child prodigy I was, when I decided to stop tickling the ivories and hop down and dance a bit instead. I wasn't particularly graceful at the age of three. During one particularly difficult step, I tripped over my own feet and fell forward toward the piano bench. Thinking quickly, I decided that I could best break my fall by slamming my mouth into the bench (I wasn't particularly bright at the age of three, either).

All was going well until my mouth actually made contact with the bench. It was at this point that all of my front teeth, top and bottom, decided to bid a fond farewell to my gums. I believe I was too stunned to cry. I just stood there for a moment, rubbing my eyes and staring down at the tiny, white bits of enamel that were scattered around my feet. I believe it was at that point that I started to scream. I can't remember much after that. The event has been filed away in a dark area of my brain, filed in a drawer appropriately marked, "Traumatic Experiences: Age Three." I have thirty-five other similarly marked drawers, one for each traumatic year of my life.

I do know that I wasn't taken to a dentist after my mouthy mishap. You must understand, mine was a poor, southern farming family. The only contact we ever had with a dentist was when our cow developed an absessed tooth and refused to give milk until it was seen to. Funny, I never knew the roots of a cow's teeth were directly tied to their udders. The vet came and took care of the cow's tooth and she repayed him by covering his shoes with milk. I suppose if I had provided milk for the family my mom would've taken me to the dentist, or at least called the vet. As it was, I was given a popsycle and told to go outside.

The first time I came into contact with an honest-to-God dentist I was ten years old. I had developed an awful toothache and after much whining, my mother decided I needed professional help. As the vet was busy and we had no family dentist, she opened up the Yellow Pages and let her fingers do the walking.

Understand, I had never seen the inside of a dentist's office before. Needless to say, I was in awe. The lobby was filled with coloring books and toys and kiddy magazines. I began to relax a little. Surely this guy couldn't be all bad, not with all this neat stuff in his lobby. There was even a basket on the counter, filled with brightly colored toothbrushes and little rolls of cinnamon-flavored dental floss. A sign attached to the basket read, "Be Good, Get a Treat." Wow, I started thinking, going to the dentist is just like meeting Santa Claus!

I was just getting interested in an Archie comic book when the door opened and a nurse by the name of Ratchet called my name. Suddenly, the tension returned to my young spine. I gave my mother a final hug, knowing full well that I would never see her again, then obediently followed Nurse Ratchet down the hall.

I followed her into a room and bravely climbed up in the big chair. She clipped the drool bib around my neck, tusseled my hair, all the while pretending to be nice as she bared her fangs at me. "The doctor will be in shortly," she said. "You just sit there and relax."

The moment the door closed, I sat up in the chair to investigate my surroundings. Something that looked like a giant anteater made out of chrome hovered above my head. A tray of sharp, silver instruments was to my right. And the thing that frightened me the most was a poster on the wall that showed the grizzly affects of tooth decay run amok. I forgot the pain in my mouth and quickly began scouting possible escape routes (or is it roots?). I started to pull off the bib and climb from the chair, but it was too late. The door creaked open.

"Hello, young man," a man in a white coat said as he closed and locked the door. I looked at his teeth for a moment. They were long, pointed, dripping saliva. "How's that tooth?"

"Fine," I muttered. "Doesn't hurt a bit."

"Well, why don't I take a look at it anyway. Just relax and open wide."

Now hold on! Why do dentists say this? It's physically impossible to relax while opening wide. They know this. I think they just like to watch people try.

"I'm afraid that tooth's going to have to come out," he said, clicking his tongue. He took a step back and cupped his chin with one hand. The way he shook his head didn't offer me much hope. He tapped my cheek. "If I don't pull it, the pain will eventually get so bad you won't be able to stand it."

Jeez, did this guy have a great bedside manner or what?

"Now just relax," he was saying now, his back turned to me. "It'll be over before you know it."

What a crock! my young brain screamed. This man was about to remove something that had been attached to my skull for five years and he expected me to believe that it wasn't going to hurt? I may have been only ten, but I was nobody's fool. I was about to make a break for the door when he turned around. I froze when I saw what was in his hand.

Dr. Mengele was holding a needle. Not an ordinary needle, mind you, but the biggest needle in North America. They say the smaller you are the bigger everything looks, however, I don't think I'm exagerating when I say this needle was at least three feet long from plunger to tip. He had to use both hands just to steady it. I swear.

"What's that for?" I managed to ask.

"I'm going to give you a shot to numb your gums."

Before I left the lobby, my mother had told me to be a little man. I loved my mother, but needless to say following her advice was no longer high on my priority list. I bolted from the chair and ran for the door. Unfortunately, Dr. Mengele was ready for me. He grabbed my arm and sternly guided me back to the chair.

"Now, be a little man," he said. Oh no! He had been talking to my mother! "Just close your eyes and open your mouth. You won't feel a thing."

I squeezed my eyes shut with all my might. I felt a quick sting in my jaw, then, nothing. As I opened my eyes I was on my way to my first novicane rush. I slowly realized that my nose was gone. Then my lips, my jaw. Finally, the entire right side of my face melted away and slid down into the collar of my Partridge Family t-shirt. The tooth was out of my mouth in less than a minute, but I no longer cared. I was too busy trying to figure out where my face had gone.

Dr. Mengele was rambling on about the benefits of flossing, but I was poking my thumb to my nose. While he was telling me not to bite my tongue, I was drumming my fingers across my bottom lip and making stupid noises. I was about to ask for another shot when he pulled me out of the chair and ushered me into the lobby.

"Is everything all right?" my mother asked. She gave me the look usually reserved for those times when I'd lock my younger brother in the closet and tell her he'd run away. She had obviously heard my screams.

"No problem at all," Dr. Mengele said. He narrowed his eyes and smiled down at me. His pupils flashed red for just a second as he assessed the worth of my soul. He reached into the basket on the counter and handed me a toothbrush and roll of floss. "Now remember, brush and floss every day and you'll never have to see me again."

And every day I did.

So you see, Larry, old pal, while I (and 4 out of 5 people surveyed) do hate dentists, it's not your fault. So just relax and open wide.

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