I hate visiting the dentist. I hate it with the entire core of my being.

My fear of the dentist is so deep-rooted that I will do all it takes to avoid the visit; I will even go to the extent of brushing my teeth thrice a day. (Yes, now I know that too much brushing is not good too.)

But one of my chewing teeth started feeling sensitive for a few days, and I continued chewing on the other side, hoping it would automatically disappear if I ignored it long enough. (Like I do with some things in my life.) But it was as adamant as I was. Of course, it was a part of me. (Eyes rolling)

Finally, after ignoring it for a month, I made my way to the dentist’s clinic. As I sat there waiting for my turn, I kept contemplating if it was a good idea or if I should silently sneak away and go back home. Then I remembered my mother’s wise words — if you keep postponing, the problem will only become bigger.

Before I could change my mind, I was called in by the dentist. She promptly asked me when my last visit to a dentist was — I said six years ago — and she was not pleased with my answer. A frown appeared on her face, and she went on complaining as she checked my tooth — this is the problem, people don’t do yearly dental check-ups, they visit only when they have a problem. 

I had a good response to that, but I couldn’t say anything because my mouth was wide open, and she was prodding with some tools.

But you tell me, who in their right mind likes to visit a doctor? Most of us only go if there is a problem. I didn’t understand why she was surprised by it. In my opinion, doctors, lawyers, and police are emergency service providers. We only visit them when we have a problem. (Leave a comment below if you are on my side.)

Finally, she gave me the verdict; I had a cavity, that needed some filling. Then she paused for effect and said, “Otherwise, you have a good set of teeth.” I wanted to smile, but I didn’t because my brain had stopped functioning at the word ‘filling’.

She told her assistant to bring some more tools. As I was lying on the chair, staring at the ceiling light, being awfully aware of all the movement happening around me, my nervousness began to slowly increase. 

Her face popped right on top in front of my vision and she asked, “Are you ready? Don’t be scared, it’s a simple procedure.” Those words only scared me even more.

She got a tool out; it had a pointy end. As she brought it close to my mouth, my heartbeat rose. I quickly shut my eyes and began to silently say a prayer. But that didn’t help at all, so I started concentrating on my breathing. It was moving really fast, like the fight-or-flight mode in me had been awakened. With a show of hand, I told her to stop, and then puked into the basin next to me. Now she was shocked by this kind of reaction. I told her I had a gag reflex when some kind of tool was put into my mouth. She nodded and then continued.

Now for the next half an hour, something that seemed like an eternity, we followed this pattern of her doing something inside my mouth and me puking at regular intervals. She was terribly irritated with me and wanted to finish the job as fast as I wanted it to be over. Finally, we were on the same page.

But unfortunately, my gums started bleeding, and she told me it was impossible to proceed any further that day. I pleaded with her, but she simply said that I would have to come the next day. Another visit sounded dreadful to both of us, but here we were, cruel fate making us face our fears. 

I’m fully aware that my fear of the dentist may be irrational, but at this point, it’s practically a personality trait. So, for my second visit, I wore my lucky T-shirt, hoping that things would be better this time. Well, it weren’t.

She was in a bad mood, as the patient before me had gotten into a fight with her. I only got to know the whole story when she began the round of doing queasy things inside my mouth. She was struggling with something, so she paused and said that I was not opening my mouth wide enough. I patiently told her I did what my jaws could best do. Then the frown returned again, and she said that I had a small mouth. Well, I couldn’t believe that in her 35-year career I was the first person she was meeting with a small mouth. (Eyes rolling furiously)

Grudgingly, she got back to the job at hand. She got a clamp over my face and informed me she was going to put it inside my mouth. “Oh, dear Lord, one more tool in my mouth,” I gasped. But without waiting for any sort of consent from me, she opened my mouth and put it on one side so that my jaw remained opened as wide as it painfully could. Then she continued filling up the cavity with no concern for the discomfort I was in. If I had big puffy lips by the end of the session, I wouldn’t be surprised. 

Since I couldn’t escape, I sat there and prayed fervently to all the Gods I knew. (In India, we have around 33 crore Gods, but I know only a few of them, I reached out to each one of them.)

Then, after what seemed like a few lifetimes, she finally removed all the tools from my mouth and said that it was done. Those words felt life-affirming, life-saving, and life-boosting.

I quickly got out of the seat, paid the charges, and left without turning back. The nightmare was over, or was it?

The sun was harshly following me, the traffic noise around me was comforting for a change, I got into a rickshaw, and my breath finally started moving in a normal rhythm. That’s when I realised, I had a cut at the edge of my lips from the mouth-opening adventure. I promised myself that I would take care of my teeth so that I never have to visit a dentist again. I had experienced enough trauma to last a lifetime and now this cut would leave a scar, lest I forget.  

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