On Oral Hygiene
Two trips to the dentist in the same month.
I realize this is an incomplete sentence, but I don't know what kind of verb can go in this sentence to give it more meaning or feeling. I feel as though it expresses everything any complete sentence could express.
Ever since being free of my parents' health and dental insurance, I have chosen to celebrate my dental independence by not going to the dentist at all. I realize that that may not be the most intelligent way to take advantage of my own dental plan, but it made me feel good. This month marks the first time in two years that I've had a regular cleaning.
If people from ancient times could be magically transported into the present, and if this ancient person would somehow stumble upon a dental hygienist's office, I think that person would believe that they have stepped into some Satanic torture room. The scary-looking chair, the lead jacket (with no arm holes), the sink (that would probably inflict mortal head wounds if you accidentally rolled out of the scary chair), and a trash can that has to be full of those disgusting bloody napkins that they tie around your neck are enough to turn the stomach of any non-sado-masochist. But this frightened observer doesn't even know the half of it.
The true horror of the dentist's office does not lie in the blood napkins or the cancer-inducing x-ray machine or even the scary drill. The real terror lies in what I can only call "the hook."
After a two-year vacation from the hook's injuries, this cruel piece of metal was wickedly delighted to reconnect with my gums. Although my dental hygienist seemed nice, I think that she may be going through a divorce, break up, or has some other reason to really hate men. Sadly, my gums became the artistic medium on which she expressed her rage. As soon as I sat down in the chair, out came the hook. Although I expected a little mild scraping (because I never floss), I never imagined the treatment I was about to receive. Not only did my hygienist seem to think that my gum-line was much too low, she also didn't think I needed my bottom-front teeth.
I didn't know that the hook could fit in the gap between my lower teeth, but not only did she slide it in at the gum line, but then she yanked with the ferocity of a frightened mother lifting a car off her child. I thought my teeth were going to fly out of my mouth! I don't remember much of the visit after that. I think I may have passed out from the pain. They did however discover a cavity (probably from where she hacked away at my teeth with her serial-killer tool), which resulted in my visit today.
Today, I had a tooth drilled and filled without the use of Novocaine. My thoughts: preferable to the hook. Granted, they didn't drill all the way into my tooth, but even if they had, could it have been much more painful than my gums being pierced by a hook? I don't know.
On the bright side, I'm now terrified to not take good care of my teeth. I don't think my body can make enough blood to survive another visit like that.
I realize this is an incomplete sentence, but I don't know what kind of verb can go in this sentence to give it more meaning or feeling. I feel as though it expresses everything any complete sentence could express.
Ever since being free of my parents' health and dental insurance, I have chosen to celebrate my dental independence by not going to the dentist at all. I realize that that may not be the most intelligent way to take advantage of my own dental plan, but it made me feel good. This month marks the first time in two years that I've had a regular cleaning.
If people from ancient times could be magically transported into the present, and if this ancient person would somehow stumble upon a dental hygienist's office, I think that person would believe that they have stepped into some Satanic torture room. The scary-looking chair, the lead jacket (with no arm holes), the sink (that would probably inflict mortal head wounds if you accidentally rolled out of the scary chair), and a trash can that has to be full of those disgusting bloody napkins that they tie around your neck are enough to turn the stomach of any non-sado-masochist. But this frightened observer doesn't even know the half of it.
The true horror of the dentist's office does not lie in the blood napkins or the cancer-inducing x-ray machine or even the scary drill. The real terror lies in what I can only call "the hook."
After a two-year vacation from the hook's injuries, this cruel piece of metal was wickedly delighted to reconnect with my gums. Although my dental hygienist seemed nice, I think that she may be going through a divorce, break up, or has some other reason to really hate men. Sadly, my gums became the artistic medium on which she expressed her rage. As soon as I sat down in the chair, out came the hook. Although I expected a little mild scraping (because I never floss), I never imagined the treatment I was about to receive. Not only did my hygienist seem to think that my gum-line was much too low, she also didn't think I needed my bottom-front teeth.
I didn't know that the hook could fit in the gap between my lower teeth, but not only did she slide it in at the gum line, but then she yanked with the ferocity of a frightened mother lifting a car off her child. I thought my teeth were going to fly out of my mouth! I don't remember much of the visit after that. I think I may have passed out from the pain. They did however discover a cavity (probably from where she hacked away at my teeth with her serial-killer tool), which resulted in my visit today.
Today, I had a tooth drilled and filled without the use of Novocaine. My thoughts: preferable to the hook. Granted, they didn't drill all the way into my tooth, but even if they had, could it have been much more painful than my gums being pierced by a hook? I don't know.
On the bright side, I'm now terrified to not take good care of my teeth. I don't think my body can make enough blood to survive another visit like that.
posted by Andy at 9:38 PM
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