My First Dentist

You never forget your first, right?

Mine was a man who resembled a toad who forced me as a six-year-old to sit in his chair with a slobbering bulldog atop me while he chiseled and pulled my beloved baby teeth. I seemed to have a lot of cavities that needed to be filled, even though most of my later life was spent cavity-free. He was a welfare dentist so I assume he took advantage of a golden mouth. 

He also scheduled me for two operations, one to remove my tonsils, and another to have my wisdom teeth removed, in the hospital, at the tender age of 15.

That wasn't the worst of it.

Even as a tiny tot, I recoiled as he pulled back his liver-like lips into a slimy smile and insisted that I hug him. Then he gave me a toy, as if to reward me for having to put my arms around his girth.

Uh, just thinking about this eel today makes my skin crawl.

My worst experience came after I broke my front teeth playing dodgeball in Grade Eight. I was literally in shock when I went to see him, mortified that I had ruined my perfectly straight and white smile. His solution was to put these, I don't even know what to call them, "protectors" on my broken teeth. They had gold rims and bisected my teeth, leaving the bottom part filled in with porcelain.

My brother's joked that my teeth looked like the McDonald's Golden Arches.

I was forced to wear these horrors all through high school. I refused to smile in any of the school photos, and they definitely affected my self-esteem.

Worse, before he put them on, he shaved down my once beautiful pair into little pegs -- with no anesthetic or freezing. 

I never when back to this horrible dentist, but he left his mark on me -- literally.

Since then, I've had a spotty relationship with the profession.

When I was eighteen, my rowing coach turned out to be a dentist. Dave was a great guy, and convinced me to get rid of the Golden Arches, and he fixed me up with a beautiful pair of porcelain fake teeth. That, and he gave me gas.

I loved the gas, but still hated the dentist chair.

I have visited the dentist, on and off, sporadically ever since, depending on whether or not I had dental insurance. When I did, I was in all the time for cleanings. I loved the feel and look of perfectly cleaned teeth and really, I didn't mind the pain and suffering.

After my husband left me, he continued to give my kids top notch dental care, but stripped me of my benefits, so I really didn't see a dentist for years.

The last time, in fact, I went to a dentist was in 2007 -- 12 years ago!

In July, I broke a tooth while on vacation, and last week, I forced myself to schlepp into the local dentist's office. I expected the usual dressing down, and stern looks, but instead I was met with a kind hygienist who treated me with kid gloves. She understood I had a lot of, let's say, dental baggage, and she took her time scaling and polishing. The x-rays were encouraging. I need two crowns for broken teeth, which isn't too bad. The rest of my teeth are remarkably in good shape.

The old crowns, the ones Dave put on some 45 years ago, are holding tight, though they still look like they did when I was 18. The others are darker, and make it obvious that my top two are fakes. This makes me feel uncomfortable smiling once again, and I largely keep my mouth shut during photo shoots. I'm considering some cosmetic stuff down the road so I can look like Joe Biden. We'll see if I can raise the capital. 

Tomorrow, I will see the dentist to fill the broken tooth. I'm not nervous thanks to that lovely hygienist.

And I don't see a bull dog anywhere.

I'll take that as a good sign. 

Though if he asks for a hug, I'll punch him in the mouth.