Wisdom & Teeth

I shut my eyes and envisioned another time, another place. The nails on my right hand dug deeper into my left forearm as I struggled to be anywhere but there. The pain became too real, and my eyes opened to a bright light. It was my first time going to a "grown-ups dentist." After being babied endlessly by my childhood dentist, Dr. Charlie Brown, I had convinced my mother that the time had come for me to graduate from family dentistry. The time had finally come for me to go to a proper dentist, the sort that didn't offer me a free sticker with a smiling cartoon animal bragging to others that I was indeed cavity free. There were no prize machines here. The smell of fresh industry still lingered in the modern, chic building. In a hallway unclaimed by a particular business there was a lone chair and table adorned with outdated, overused magazines. The attempts of creating a comfortable environment did not soothe me in the least.

Since my previous dentist appointment, I had been dreading this one. Despite my claims that I am too mature and old for children's dentistry, I have an incredibly childish fear of dentist appointments. The scent of fluoride lingers in my nose for days after, and I cannot explain how painful it is when they poke and prod in my mouth. Dentist appointments are miserable, torturous experiences that reoccur every six months. This was no different. The sound of the metal instruments scraping away at my pearly whites caused a constant cringe. I squirmed whenever the hygienist returned to reenter my dental region with a new instrument of torture. What was I being punished for? I shut my eyes tight and envisioned happier times to outweigh the harsh reality. I dug my nails deep into my arms, and hoped I could escape somehow. Somehow my merry memories slipped out of my mind, and I was filled with fear and dread. Before I could get rid of these unwanted memories, it was over. I opened my eyes once more. There was a small stripe of blood in the shape of the tip of my right middle fingernail on my left arm. I breathed a deep sigh of relief.

Bad news came swiftly and suddenly. I am a child, for I feared the dentist and cried in the chair. Dentist appointments are nowhere near as terrifying as grafts. The mere mention of a graft sends chills up my spine. The news that I required one in my own mouth terrified me even more.


Fear tastes a whole lot like fluoride.