Imagining the worst is terribly easy. Wide, torn up gashes, rivulets of blood, exposed roots. Pink spongy bits swirling about in the aftermath. Sharp pain that shoots straight to the toes, legs emitting spasms because the upper torso is frozen stiff. What horrors lie in wait for these poor innocent gums?
First there will be a needle. Straight into the harder parts of those pink walls, driven in without mercy. Then the neon green gloved hands of a doctor who believes you no longer feel anything. A pair of shiny tweezers catch the light as they go in for the kill. They catch a loose piece of gum and pull back, heedless of the ripping, ready to turn you inside out. Then, a pair of overly large eyes lean closer to peer into the pink, virginal depths of your inner gum line. Scoping things about before she sends in the digging team. The digging team is a double headed creature, sharp on both ends, with a single goal. To plumb the depths of those pink caverns in search of that elusive raw material: plaque.
But don’t worry honey, it’s all for your own good. Just press your head further back into the chair, sweetie, press down in the vain hope of putting distance between your teeth and that greedy excavator. How’s it going? Don’t forget to breathe, dear! You just tell me if it hurts, okay? What can you do but move your head imperceptibly up and down. You know you’re defeated, but that doesn’t mean you have to grovel at their feet. Don’t give them the pleasure. It’s not as if anything you say or do could stop the insatiable desires of those cruel instruments, all lined up and ready to go.
Is there a more helpless position? They have you splayed out under a bright light, laid bare. Eyes hidden behind glasses, face hidden behind a mask, the dental hygienist proceeds to use your teeth like a child uses a violin. The screeching friction of two things that should never make contact makes your bones quiver. The bow slips over to the bridge and the hairs catch and rip and the sound that emerges is like the death cry of some terrible creature full of remorse. The hygienist saws away with her silver bow, attempting to ascertain the pitch and vibrato of every part of every tooth. You’re nothing but a plaything, a pet, one that will sing unwillingly for hours and hours at a time.
I close my eyes and wish for fingers against chalkboards or squealing bicycle tires, anything to drown out the inferno. The sound is almost as bad as the sensation of it all. Each time I think I’ve gotten used to the pain, it changes it’s melody. The most brutal instrument is the buzzing, electric one, the drill that plows into my gums like soil and leaves bloody seeds in its wake. Then there’s the mirror. She only watches, observing coldly at the spectacle you’ve become. The suction instrument is supposedly there for my comfort, but it does nothing but add a vulgar background of slurping to the song. Although, I am grateful not to drown in my own spit. There are others, but after a while, the details blur together. The individual moments lose their distinction, and by the end, all that is left is a cacophony that will play forever in the roots of my poor, massacred teeth.
Aaaaaand that’s it sweetie! Wasn’t so bad was it? You were an absolute champ. Now don’t forget, make an appointment with Gladys up front before you leave, okay? Let’s say, four months from now? Wouldn’t want to let that sneaky gingivitis get the better of us! Okay then honey, I have another patient waiting for me. Good luck with school and I’ll see you next time!!!
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