Thursday, December 6, 2012

oral hell...


I went to the oral hygienist this week. My God, what a brutal business.  I always think it’s not going to be as bad as the last time but it always is.

As I sat down in the chair my body was already responding; heart beating in my throat, hands shaking and armpits sweaty. I could feel the adrenaline surging before she’d even begun.  Perhaps the oral hygienist felt the same when she saw my teeth.  There’s always the inevitable awkwardness when she asks if I’m flossing regularly and I lie, unconvincingly. The truth is so very obvious.

As she started to scritch-scritch-scratch I immediately thought  - as I always do – who in Gaaads name would want to do this job? This thought is quickly followed by, thank heavens she IS willing to do this job because I don’t want to do it.

As she hits one of the back molars I feel a sharp pain.

“Ooh,” I say “rat huns a hit henhitive (this is open-mouth speak for - “Ooh, that one’s a bit sensitive.)

Most folk would interpret this message as “touch that bloody tooth again and I’ll stab you in the leg with your scratchy tool”. But no, she didn’t get the hint and I couldn’t help but think that a safe-word should be mandatory with all dentistry. “Puuuuuuuck” would do the trick.

As she continued to scritch-scritch-scratch along all the bottom teeth, I started fantasizing about all the ways that I might get even with her, when all of a sudden she stops and says “you can take a rinse now”.

Hurrah, I think to myself. We’re halfway there.

As I rinse out my mouth and see chunky, bloody stuff in the basin.  This can’t be blinking right, I think to myself, she’s gouging away at my gums for Pete’s sake. I notice that she’s cunningly tinted the rinse water a pinkish colour so as to disguise the high levels of blood. Sneaky, but I’m on to her.

She then starts on the upper teeth which for some reason are always much worse than the bottom ones. Is it the confounded angle that she has to go in at?

She continues to scratch and pick and draw blood on the upper jaw and such is my discomfort, that I finally decide I’ve had enough. Bracing myself with my hands on the arms of the chair, I lift my legs high into the air and behind my head in a kung fu kind of way. Gripping tightly, I grab her head with my feet and then lift her by her head out of her chair and fling her out the window.  It was like a Tarantino movie scene. 

OK, you know what, that last part didn’t really happen. It only happened in my mind. But just the fantasy of it gave me enough momentary satisfaction to see me through the top jaw.
She finishes up on the top, says that I should take a rinse (again, it’s as gory as a battle scene from Braveheart) and then - why oh why for the love of God - she starts working on the bottom teeth again.  WT flying F are you doing??? I think. I thought we were done there?

But no, she isn’t done with torture for today and keeps drawing more blood, and gouging and piercing me with her sharp thingy.  It’s not my imagination, I see the evil glint in her eye.

I’ve always wondered which is worse, a glycolic peel or a session at the hygienist. In the end I think I’d have to say that the oral hygienist wins hands down, simply because she appears to take so much pleasure in her craft. Sigh. The next session is only 365 days away.

No comments:

Post a Comment