Priyan R Naik
There are few appointments in one’s life that cause as much dread as a visit to the dentist. The very word conjures up images of drills, needles, bright lights and the smell of antiseptic. Add to that the indignity of lying flat with your mouth stretched open to a complete stranger who conducts what seems to be a road-widening project inside your mouth and it is easy to understand why most of us postpone dental visits for as long as humanly possible.
A nagging discomfort from my right side molars had been quietly requesting my attention for over a week. Afraid of a visit to the dentist, I responded by ignoring them, believing like most optimists, that if I avoided thinking about it, the problem would somehow disappear. Predictably, the teeth had other plans.
Choosing a dentist is a deeply personal affair. Some rely on glowing recommendations, others on impressive qualifications. My selection criteria were refreshingly simple, the clinic had to be close to home, parking had to be effortless, and importantly, the dentist had to possess a cheerful disposition. If someone was going to use a drill in my mouth, the least she could do was smile while doing it.
My previous encounter with a tooth-yanker had taken place many years earlier when I had gone to get a cavity filled. That visit remains memorable for reasons entirely unrelated to dentistry. Completely unaware that the reclining chair was meant for patients, I confidently occupied the dentist’s revolving stool instead. The dentist looked at me with mild amusement before saying, “Excuse me, that’s my seat.” This time, if nothing else, I knew exactly which seat was mine.
The X-ray however, revealed that my molars had ambitions of becoming famous. The dentist studied them for a while before summoning two more colleagues from her clinic, who gathered around the illuminated film like archaeologists examining a newly discovered fossil.
“The upper teeth have now lost most of their enamel” she pronounced solemnly, “sensitivity is the problem as they are now close to a nerve.” Within moments, three pairs of curious eyes were peering into my mouth. Despite my panic, I was undoubtedly flattered, it isn’t every day that one becomes an interesting case study for aspiring dental surgeons.
A new tooth paste was recommended, which I had to use diligently and return 3-4 months later before she could inflict the next steps. I sat in the waiting room reflecting on the chain of events that had brought me there. Was I somehow responsible?
Surely, I couldn’t be entirely blamed. Like most people, I had faithfully brushed twice a day, changed my tooth brush in time and nodded earnestly whenever advertisements assured me that a particular toothpaste was “recommended by a dentist.” Yet here I was, being introduced to another toothpaste with an even more impressive list of credentials. As I left the clinic clutching my prescription dreading the thought of returning to the clinic, the dentist cheerfully reminded me, “See you in four months.” There was something unsettling about the confidence with which she said it. Dentists never say, “You don’t need any more visits” Their business model depends on our neglect, our sweet tooth and our remarkable ability to postpone appointments.
Getting back home, I found myself smiling despite the sensitivity in my teeth. I had survived without a single injection, drill or extraction: this time. It felt less like victory and more as if I was granted bail until the next hearing. For now, I have entered into a fragile peace treaty with my molars. I brush them with renewed enthusiasm, avoid biting into suspiciously hard foods and even smile a little more carefully. After all, wisdom may not come with age, but painful dental treatment certainly does!
