By Jeff M. Brown
“Some tortures are physical and some are mental, but the one that is both is dental” – Ogden Nash
Scrape, Scrape, Scrape…
My jaw muscles were killing me. They were so tired. “We’re giving her all she’s got, Captain, but she can’t take much more of this,” they cried. The situation was making me so uncomfortable it was all I could think about. I wanted to close my mouth. Gosh, I wanted to, but, of course, I couldn’t, because the dentist had his fingers in it. He was hard at work cleaning out the last six months worth of plaque I failed to remove myself with my toothbrush. Scrape, scrape, scrape…
How could I have been so lazy? I should have brushed more often, I thought. I firmly resolve from this point forward to brush and floss my teeth after every meal and snack and Chiclet for the rest of my life, so help me God. Scrape, scrape, scrape…
I need to get my mind off my aching jaw muscles. What should I do? I know, I’ll count the ceiling tiles. One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Okay, this isn’t working. Not even a little. I know, I’ll wiggle my toes to try to burn off some of the excess energy I seem to have. Wait, I’m already wiggling my toes and I didn’t even notice. Heck, I’m wiggling my feet and legs too. This isn’t working either. Now what? Scrape, scrape, scrape…
I need to find my happy place. That’s it, Jeff, go to your happy place. Okay, what exactly does that mean? I don’t think I have a happy place. If I do, then I’m not aware of it. I better find it right now before I have a panic attack. Think, Jeff, think. I’m picturing a nice green field of clover and grass and flowers. The sun is out and there are white fluffy clouds drifting in the breeze. Oh, look, there’s a cute little bunny hopping around without a care in the world. There’re no predators for him to worry about in this field. It’s okay, buddy, you’re safe here, here with me in my happy place. But wait, who’s that? It’s an intruder. I don’t believe this- it’s a white-coated dentist! He has a dental implement and he’s chasing the poor bunny with it. Run, bunny, run! Scrape, scrape, scrape…
I squirmed in my chair. Ouch, that hurts. Watch where you’re poking that thing, Mr. Dentist, because, oh God, I think I’m going to gag. Control yourself, Jeff. Wiggle your toes. Wiggle your feet. Count the ceiling tiles again. Run Mr. Rabbit. Happy place! Happy place! I have to use every means at my disposal because I absolutely, positively, without a doubt in the world, DON’T WANT TO PUKE.
Scrape, scrape, scrape…
The dentist finally removed his hand from my mouth and my jaw clamped firmly shut. The nausea went away and the sweet relief my muscles felt was so good I thought I died and went to heaven. “Jeff,” said the dentist, as he sprayed some water in my mouth with his ADA approved garden hose. “I’m happy to report that you don’t have any cavities.”
Thank goodness, I thought, as I swished away my worries. I could hardly handle the cleanings. I don’t know how I’d ever deal with an actual procedure in my mouth that required more time and drilling and pain and, most importantly- self-control.
“However,” he said, as he yanked off his latex gloves, “I recommend that you have your wisdom teeth pulled.”
HAPPY PLACE! HAPPY PLACE! HAPPY PLACE!