Four Cavities: A Cautionary Tale

Most kids' TV shows address it in one format or the other: the anthropomorphic animal protagonist, whether frog or anteater or bunny, having to go to the dentist. The animal, hearing all kinds of stories from older animals, is terrified out of his/her/its mind. But the dentist is nice! The office is warm and friendly! The toothpaste tastes like bubble gum! At the end, the animal is given a balloon and skips out of the office with a  on their face. "You know what, Mommy?" they say to the bigger animal who may or may not be their own species, "The dentist isn't that bad after all!" 

Clearly, he's not a very good dentist, since he seems to be missing every other tooth.

And so goes childhood. The dentist cleans your teeth and gives you a sticker. You leave happy, never dreaming about, never fearing, the darkness that lurks beneath the surface. But I have gone there, my friends.  I have ventured into the primal shadow hanging just beyond the dentist's chair. The stories are no more than vile propaganda from the Dark Lords of Dentistry. 

Go home. Hug your remaining teeth. Cry.

My journey into the dark side of teeth began last week, when I showed up at the dentist's office for a semi-annual cleaning. I believe the hygienist working on my teeth hates me, for some obscure reason. She has a smile that looks like it's being created by some metal device in her jawbone. It never moves. 

I recoil in pain as she jabs a sharp stick into my gum.

"It hurts, doesn't it? That's because you don't floss."

Actually, I do floss. "It hurts because you're poking my gum with a pointy thing!"

Surprise flickers across her face. Apparently, I'm the first person to ever point this out to her. I wonder why. She mumbles something about flossing more and then asks me what flavor of toothpaste I want. "Is cherry okay? We also have mint, root beer, and banana."

Now, I hate cherry flavored toothpaste. But I am an adult. I'm going to the adult dentist, the one who doesn't give out stickers or balloons or count off my teeth in his best "Count from Sesame Street" voice. So over my dead body am I going to ask for the root beer flavor. "No, cherry's fine," I say, like a world-weary adult, and I try to turn off my taste buds as she massages the disgusting cherry stuff into my gums. It doesn't work too well.

Then comes the dentist to look at my teeth. Normally, he just does a quick look, flashes me a thumbs up, and lets me leave. This time, though, a light pops up in his eyes. The light of a man who has just seen a great deal of money drop out of the sky and into his lap. 

"Oh," he says, deeply 'concerned'. "These four teeth need fillings."

Now, I have never had a cavity before. Ever. Ever, ever, ever. This seems especially unfair, as I have actually been flossing my teeth. Flossing! That should guaranteeing me immunity from every tooth related problem ever (and Taylor says it will, but that I'm doing it wrong). Immediately, I blame the New York water--specifically, the fact that they use it to make the sodas in the dining halls I drink three glasses of a day.

"How much will it cost to fill them?" I ask. When I hear the figure, I immediately wish I was being poked in the gums by the sharp stick again.

However, I am a jaded consumer. I'm not easily wooed into parting with my money if something isn't necessary (stop snickering, Taylor, I need that liberal arts education). I cock my head, meet his eyes, and ask, "What'll happen if I don't get them filled?"

Apparently, the seas will turn to blood. The Antichrist will arise. Everyone will be marked on their wrist and forearm with the Number of the Beast--which, coincidentally, is a much lower figure than what it will cost me to get these cavities filled. 

Properly cowed, I walk up to the front desk and make two appointments--one for the cavaties on my right jaw, and one for the cavities on my left. The woman at the desk seems pretty upbeat. I'm guessing she takes a cut of the action. 

"How was your appointment?" she asks, handing me the bill.

In tribute to my hygienist, I fix a robotic grin on my face. "Great! Absolutely great!"

And my father agrees to foot the bill, provided I allow him and the rest of the family to remind me over and over for the rest of my life that I got four whole cavities my first semester at college. Talk is cheap, so I agree. Molly seems to find it insanely funny. I just remind myself that my first semester was also the time my breasts grew a whole extra size, so all in all it's worth the exchange.

Or so I thought. Until I returned for my first filling.

"How are you today?" the receptionist asks.

"As great as anyone who has four cavities can be!" I say, matching her enthusiasm high for high. 

A male hygienist I've never seen before (maybe they only bring him out on special occasions, like whenever an unruly patient has to be restrained by force?) leads me to the room in the very back. A lot of very big instruments sit next to the chair. I can't shake the suspicion that they're all going to end up in my mouth.

"Here's some numbing cream," the hygienist says, sticking a cotton swab with a blue liquid the same color as my fingernails in my mouth. 

This color. Great for fingernails, creepy for mouth

"Don't swallow," he says, as my jaw begins to go numb.

Automatically, spit starts building up in the back of my mouth. Don't swallow. There is absolutely nothing I want more in the whole wide world then to swallow. My throat needs it, I feel like I'm choking, and the numb, tingly feeling in my jaw doesn't really help too much. I can't feel half my tongue. So I focus on the patterns in the wallpaper and the classic rock station playing "Eye of the Tiger". That same song played as I charged up the first hill at Runnin' With The Wolves my junior year, where I set a PR and came in fifth overall . I can't help feeling humbled, but I reassure myself by thinking that at least I'm not in pain. 

I thought too soon.

The dentist sits down next to me, raising a miniature version of a European torture device in one hand--to inject me with Novacane, supposedly. However, all I see is another pointy thing designed to poke me in the gums. "Will that hurt?" I ask.

"Yes," he says.

"Lie to me, doc!" I plead.

"This won't hurt a bit." He smiles. "Actually, it won't hurt me a bit."

That's when I mutter a bad word under my breath. He laughs. "Just tell me when you're ready."

Come on, Liz, you're a runner. You've felt worse pain than a shot in your gum. Of course, that pain was somewhat dulled by adrenaline and actually wanting to be doing what I was doing. All I can see is that needle, that bright metal injection device designed to puncture one of the most sensitive parts of the body. My biological education unhelpfully informs me that, while the numbing cream will dull the pain of entry, it doesn't numb anything below the surface.

"We could do this without the Novacane," he suggests. 

I clench my fists. "Do it!" 

The shot to my upper jaw seems to last three times as long as any flu shot, vaccine, or blood collection ever has. Part of me screams that he's drawing it out on purpose. 

"Now for the bottom gum," he announces.There is a spark. My tooth is electrocuted (and I know exactly what that feels like). "Huh. Hit a nerve." 

I fight the urge to bite his finger. 

My tooth is electrocuted again. This time, I feel the exact shape of the nerve in my tooth. It has three main branches. Two point towards the back of my throat and one points out. One of the inward facing ones is a little lower than the other two. Mankind was not meant to know this much detail about the inside of their teeth. 

"Hit it going in and out. That's bad luck." 

"Euugh!" I gasp out. It's the only thing I'm capable of saying with two people's fingers in my mouth. 

He pats me on the shoulder. "I'll be right back."

The Novacane spreads through my jaw, thankfully numbing the throbbing stab wounds in my gum. When the dentist returns, he's got his big drill in hand and looks like a cowboy about to mount his favorite rodeo horse. 

"Keep your mouth wiiiiiide open," he drawls, and starts drilling away. 

Stuff begins flying out of my mouth--drops of spit or bits of tooth, I'm not sure which. The whine of the drill combines with the sweet smell of burning friction to remind me of my high school robotics class. It feels like someone is constructing a robot in my mouth. 

"Nicholas didn't show up for his appointment today," the hygienist says. 

"Oh, really?" The dentist shifts the angle of the drill. I press my tongue to the floor of my mouth, fearing that at any second, I'm about to gain a hipster style tongue piercing. 

"Yeah. He wasn't wearing his Invisalign all week and he was worried his teeth had shifted."

"Huh. Well, re-schedule him for next week."

How are they talking shop when there's a freaking drill in my mouth? Does no one see the deadly seriousness of this? There is a drill. Running. In my mouth. I need that mouth to live, darn it!

And so it goes. I close my eyes and pretend that I am anywhere but here, even when I taste burning rubber in my mouth and the endless chant of open wider, wider, wider echoes in my ears. I am on a desert island, where my jaw is burning and my spit tastes awful, where my mouth is being rinsed and dried and all types of terrible industrial processes. At last, at last, the terrible din stops and the dentist tells me I can close my mouth. 

"But be careful you don't bite your tongue!" 

Carefully aware of my tongue, I close my mouth at last. My cheek feels gigantic and tingly. The stab wounds are waiting to reappear and make my life miserable. My shaking hands grab my purse. I limp towards the door.

"See you tomorrow!" the horribly cheerful receptionist says. I stumble out to my car where I wrap my arms around my steering wheel and hyperventilate for a few good moments. 

"It's over. It's over. It's over." But it isn't over. I've got to go back tomorrow and repeat the ordeal. And that's the moment where I swear to myself that I will never, ever drink another soda. Never.

It's strictly milkshakes from here on out.