I’ve always hated the dentist.
I remember the fortunate incident when I cried while sitting in that sticky vinyl chair; my mom, at times trying to save face to keep the locals’ gossip at bay, was incredibly disappointed at me for being such a baby. Sorry, mom. I’m still a baby.
I woke up this morning at 5:30 a.m. (not that this is atypical for me) and made my way to Northgate Mall to visit my dentist. Why? Because I am, at last, taking painful steps in ensuring my vanity is preserved and renewed by getting porcelin veneers done on my ugly, stained, problematic two front teeth.
I’ve never been to Northgate before, so I wasn’t sure what to look for. The number 9 bus trucked along steadily and as I made my way farther and farther past NAIT, I wondered, “did I miss it? How much further?” and gradually, an odd sense of panic ensued; nobody – NOBODY – wants to get lost in the Northern region of this city. It is a mess of industrial scrapyards, sketchy Chinese restaurants, pawn shops and car dealerships. Sidewalks are missing in places, highway lanes close off… it’s a mess of fear and uncertainty. Anyway, lucky for me Northgate is HUGE – it looks all shiny and new and freshly painted. Inside though, it’s still the totally crappy mall in the north end of the city that we’d all expect it to be. My dental office was right across the road.
Things I noticed when I walked in: the filth-ridden waiting room toys in the corner of the room; you’d think after SARs, Bird Flu and H1N1, they would have erradicated this practice; I guarantee, the paranoid millenial parents of today bring their own children’s toys with them whenever a waiting room situation is anticipated; however, kids see toys that aren’t theirs and instantly gravitate towards them. Honestly… disgusting; I also noticed that for 8:00 a.m. on a Tuesday, the waiting room was almost completely full; also, details of Wills and Kate’s visit to Canada were revealed today, and I was offended that Edmonton was not on the list; also, if I were Wills and Kate, I would spring a surprise visit. Why must your entire vacation be announced? And why are they ending it in Los Angeles of all non-Commonwealth places?; the last I thing I noticed: what I remember most about going to the dentist as a kid was when the hygenist, whose name escapes me now, called me ‘Maya’ and I’d be too shy to correct her, or say what I really wanted to say, even as a small child – “you BITCH. My name is pronounced MEE-YA. I will BREAK YOU!” This didn’t change; the hygenist, dentist, and receptionist all called me ‘Maya’. I simply complied; no point in correcting you now. And hey, it’s almost like a tradition.
I went into the “operating room”, which was more like an eerily white cubicle loaded with scary tubes and instruments. Why must dentists’ offices be so clean, modern, cold and futuristic? I’d love to see paisley wallpaper and gold-guilded framed mirrors hanging on the walls, and a picture of dogs playing poker, and maybe a Mr. Coffee sitting on an old oak coffee table. But alas; scary tubes and instruments…
The hygenist, bless her heart, was incredibly friendly and sweet; I looked up into her face from the odd angle at which I was sitting, my pupils wandering between her fake mascaraed eyelashes and CBC News. She asked me if I wanted the remote to change the channel; I absolutely did - The Price is Right was probably on somewhere, and I was missing the showcase showdown. Either that, or TLC was having a Toddlers and Tiaras marathon. However, I figured she would judge my bad taste in daytime TV, so I left the news on. I’m a smart, well-informed, all-business girl. You know how it is. Anyway, she moved me from the awkward angle all the way until I was laying down flat on my back. Is there anything more vulnerable than lying flat on a dentist’s chair surrounded by terrifying, pointy torture devices? I hav childhood memories of being in this position at the mercy of the denist from my youth, Dr. Reghair, and his voice, which I refer to as the ‘pedophile voice’; he had that soft growly timbre and said things like, “alright, Maya… open wiiiideee like a crocodile…” and I would, and it would hurt and I hated everything about it.
After she made a mould of my teeth with the odd, spearmint-flavoured plaster, which dried in minutes and after it did so, tasted like gum left on the bedpost overnight, my dentist came in. DAYUUMN. He was. HOT. He had that rugged 5 o’clock shadow look and soft dark lips which matched his smouldering dark skin; his hair fell in black tendrils around his face and he had those deeply-penetrating brown eyes which peered over me with utter sensitivity.
When he spoke, he whispered.
“He’s lost his voice,” the hygenist told me. Were they kidding? Was this some sort of initiation joke for new patients? Or maybe he was just trying to purposely be erotic? Whatever the case - the whispering ensued.
So the doctor went on to tell me how the procedure was going to work and what would be done. Maybe because I was lost in his eyes, or because he was whispering at me through a papery surgical mask, Icouldn’t hear him. So I smiled and nodded and pretended I could understand him. Let’s face it: he’ll do what he’ll do regardless of if I know what’s coming. Maybe it will be like a fun surprise!
The “fun surprise” came in the form of that fucking needle, which produces the same pain as the dentist needles from my youth. It’s sort of sharp and feels a bit like a far worse version of an ice cream headache. After that, my whole upper face was frozen and Doctor Hot Biotch said to me, “are you alright? You’re doing so good.” Which made my heart melt into a puddle of something… which hopefully gives you cavities, so I can come back to the dentist multiple times. He was then, putting his fingers up my nostrils and pressing them between the cotton tubes lodged inside my lip, and prying my cheeks open. Under any other circumstances, this might be pleasant when instigated by a hot, rugged doctor. But I thought, I can’t possibly look attractive while this is happening. And also, I’m probably drooling and bleeding all over his fingers and I can’t see it, or feel it.
The hygenist told me, in her sweet voice, that they were going to “saw my teeth down”; I envisioned when she said this, the idea of putting my teeth through a sander and making them thinner, or wiping the stain off their evolutionarily-inferior surface that caused me to be in this position in the first place. She sawed and sawed and sawed away and dust and water were flying everywhere, leaving calcium clouds blotching my glasses. My mouth tasted like rock flour and the stuff they use to freeze your mouth, which is maybe the most unpleasant flavour imaginable; like sour earwax. When she was done, my tongue wandered over to my two front teeth, only to find them missing. Gone. Poof. No more ugly stained teeth. So I wouldn’t look like Rocky Balboa, she replaced my missing real teeth was unfortunately crooked, dull ‘plastic caps’, which are to mimick my actual teeth until the fun, pretty porcelin ones, whose colour I am to choose tomorrow, are placed in. My instruction regarding these plastic imposter teeth: don’t bite anything, and careful they don’t fall out.
I feel like a grade 2 student whose front teeth are both loose at the same time; I can feel them budging and I can’t stop prying them around with my tongue; I’m waiting for the moment my fake teeth fall into my soup at dinnertime, or I wake up to find one missing and lodged into my pillow or something. I can’t explain the feeling; to feel so yourself, you would need to get your own two front teeth shaved off completely and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
The last thing they did was make a second mould of my teeth, but I had to bite hard on this one and they left me lying with it in my mouth for seven minutes. It was seven minutes of hell. I was clutching my index finger with my opposite hand and squeezing tight to attempt to erraticate the aching in my jaw. If I were a super villain I’d be yelling, “Mr. Bond, I will never tell you where the jewels are!” through my gritted, biting mouth.
Finally Dr. Hot Biotch came back and informed me we were done, and he’d see me again when the veneers were ready. The veneer days are sure to be awful, painstaking days where I hate my life and taste more blood and more bone fragments, and drool senselessly, both physically and emotionally. But on the upside, I get to see Dr. Hot Biotch again.
And that was my morning.
