I hate going to the dentist.
I always did, always will.
I hate going to the dentist even more than I hate wearing ties.
I don't know about you, but I hate when they poke around in your mouth.
And heaven forbid they find something wrong ... well, you are in for it.
It runs in the family. My sister is such a terrible patient that she has been barred from several dentists for one reason or another.
No kidding, actual fact.
In the midst of everything I have been through lately, I have a total of five appointments to go to the dentist to fix what is wrong in my mouth.
I went to the first one, where they took X-rays and found that I have one cavity on the left, something on my right that needs to be taken care of, and I also need a thorough cleaning.
I went to the second one this past Saturday, where they supposedly took care of what was wrong on the right side. It is still a bit cold-sensitive, but the space that was there has been filled, I was told that there is no nerve damage, and I may just have to live with whatever discomfort there is.
I have to go tomorrow after work for my first cleaning, and being that I am half asleep anyway after work, that should be fun on top of fun.
I have never liked the dentist. As a kid, I had to go to a special dentist who supplied "sweet air," because at my regular dentist, the doctor told my mother that I could not sit still.
Neither could he, by the way. He was a good looking guy who was married, and was having an affair with his receptionist. Everyone knew it, and he eventually ditched his wife and settled down with his employee.
Anyway, from there I went to another dentist, who just happened to be the dentist who took care of my mother's teeth all those years prior. My mother's mouth was a mess, but he instilled in her good habits, and her teeth has been good even into her 80s.
He was an old fashioned dentist, used to yell at me about my mouth, and he used old fashioned methods which seemed to work. But he did give sweet air, and at least I could be seemingly in another dimension when he did his work and I had the gas mask around my nose.
One time, I was told to make believe I was Superman flying around, and boy, I was high, real high, when they worked on my mouth that time.
With me, as I grew into my teenage years, my mouth was a morass of problems. I had teeth growing in every which way, many of which he had to pull. I think I hold the world's record for pulling of baby teeth at one sitting; I don't remember if it was 12 or 15, but yes, they were all pulled to prepare me for my braces.
They were all coming out at one time, anyway, all loose, so there wasn't any pain, but they were pulled. I remember he gave me one as a souvenir, with the root intact, and I had that for the longest time. I don't know where it is now.
Once my teeth were ready for braces, I went to another doctor, and he was a pretty rough doctor on your mouth, so much so that I actually threw up on him. I remember wearing a white shirt that day for assembly at school, but whatever he did to me, he really got it bad, much worse than I did.
I wore braces for several years, probably too long, but it did fix my teeth, made them straighter, and I really didn't have a problem with my teeth until I was in my later 30s or early 40s.
My dentist passed away--he was in his 80s and supposedly died in the middle of a procedure, not with me, thank goodness--and I then went to a succession of other doctors, who simply were not as good as he was.
I had a cavity here, a root canal there, other procedures here and there, but my mouth care was not that great.
One time, I needed to have a crown inserted, and the dentist I used literally lost the crown.
Another time, with all these things hanging out of my mouth, there was a power failure--my worst fear of having dental work was realized--and I remember I sat there, with this stuff in my mouth for several minutes before the power was restored. Those several minutes seemed like several hours to me.
I had had enough after the last experience, and I vowed the next time I needed a dentist, I would go elsewhere.
I hadn't been to a dentist in two years before I finally decided to go to the dentist my wife uses--pretty much off my insurance plan from work, but I can use my wife's coverage, so while it costs me, at least it doesn't cost me an arm and a leg ...
Just teeth and discomfort.
So here I am, finally back at a good dentist, but I hate going anyway.
But with everything that has happened to me behind me, yes, it is time to take care of my teeth.
Pray for me, really do, because I just hate going to the dentist.
I have been told by several dentists that I have the longest roots they have ever seen, and maybe that has helped me over the years, but whatever the case, I just hate them going into my mouth and digging around.
I look forward to my succeeding visits like I do about getting poison ivy, let's say.
Tomorrow will be a very long day, long roots or not, I guess.
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