“Doom at the Dentist’s” by Emma Rivera

“Doom at the Dentist’s” by Emma Rivera

(Based on a true experience)

I hate the dentist’s. I’ve always hated going to that wretched place. I mean, I just went there two weeks ago for a cleaning! Now I’m going back to that torture chamber to get a potential cavity filled. What a waste of my time. My mom pulls into the parking lot and my sister and I get out of the car and step out into the too-hot sunlight. I look up at the sky to the east. Big, purple storm clouds are coming in so it won’t be hot for long. That’s Texas for you. There’s a saying that says, “If you don’t like the weather in Texas, wait ten minutes. It’ll change.”

My sister was here to get an actual cavity filled. Why can’t they wait until mine turns into a cavity and then fill it up? Then I wouldn’t have to be here…

Stalling for time, I walk heel to toe through the parking lot, but my mom grabs my arm and tells me to hurry up. I hate it when she does that. It makes me feel like a baby.

The waiting room of the dentists’ office was redecorated a couple months ago. It had a plasma screen TV that played Pixar movies nonstop. There was also a video game area. I don’t think this was such a good idea. It might make the kids want to come to the dentist’s (if only for the brain-melting technology) but when it was their turn, they’d make a giant fuss about it and start screaming and yelling because they didn’t want to leave their precious toys.

My mother signs us in and I take a seat. There are National Geographic’s magazines so I pick one up for lack of anything better to do. There is an article about a plague that is killing flamingos in Africa and another about how people are eating too much fish. They don’t seem very interesting so I keep flipping through. The whole magazine is filled with ads, as all magazines are. It’s hard to tell whether I’m looking at an ad or an article so I put the magazine back. The rest were all fashion magazines except for one called Parent Hood. It’s a really old issue. It has articles about fun ways to decorate Easter Eggs and “clever” April Fools jokes.

Finally and unfortunately, my name is called. I grimace and follow the lady who called my name into the next room. The second I enter, my grimace deepens and I clutch my stomach. It is that horrible smell of rubber gloves, sickly sweet toothpaste and those horrid rubber noses that the give you to relax mixed to create a perfectly nauseating aroma that just spells “doom”.

“Sit over there,” the lady tells me, so I do. The woman leaves me and I sit trying not to throw up from the stench in the air.

Now, it’s a known rule never to look at the instruments on the tray while you’re waiting so you don’t worry much more than you have to about what they’re going to do, but I can’t help it. There is a mirror, a scraper, what looks like cardboard guitar picks that are used to hold peoples mouth wide open, and the water and suction tubes that hang of the table on a little rack. But also, to my horror, there are two needles on the table too! Oh my gosh! They’re going to stick me with shots of Novocain! Which means they have to numb my mouth to lessen the pain! Which means it’s going to hurt really bad!! I tear my eyes away from the viciously sharp-looking needles. Why do they need Novocain? They’re only filling up potential cavities, right? A dentist came up to me and asked if I wanted a rubber nose. This confirmed my suspicions. Why would I need calming down if it wasn’t going to hurt? My head started to spin with worry and in the confusion.

“N-no, thanks,” I stammer stupidly.

Only when she left did I realize what I’d done. But I can’t tell her I’ve changed my mind. A friend of mine had once changed his mind about something like this and the dentist got mad at him; she must have been having a really bad day. Anyway, the dentist kept “accidentally” jabbing the scraper into his gums. I’m not taking that risk.

My eyes fall again on the needles and my heart starts pounding. I notice there’s writing on the side, so I read it. Instead of reading, “Novocain Shots: Use in small doses so the kid can be in the fullest possible amount of pain”, it just says “Picket’s Sealing Cement”.

Oh.

On further examination, the end isn’t pointy like I thought. It’s flat and has a hole in it. I calm down but only a little bit because two dentists come up and sit on either side of me.

“Did you get out of school to come here?” one of them asks, smiling down at me.

“Yes,” I reply curtly.

“Would you rather be here or at school?” She asks, still wearing that dumb smile.

“I’d rather be at school and I was in Math class taking a test that I didn’t study for. How does that make you feel about your job?” I say, hoping to smolder the idiotic smile off her face. I am in a bad mood.

The lady looks slightly startled, but then she smiles a bit.

“That’s nice, sweet pea,” she smiles as if what I said was a joke, “Now we’ll get started. That all right with you, dumpling?”

I roll my eyes and mutter, “Fine.”

She pulls a large blue napkin over my chest. The sharp edge presses against my neck and feels like a knife. She looks at my charts and turns on the overhead light.

“We need to fill in 2,3,15, and 31,” she tells the other dentist as she keeps scanning my chart, “Oh. Heavy Salivator, this one.”

That’s what they always say. Apparently, I’m a dentist’s worst nightmare. Good.

“Open wide, sugar,” she says, folding the guitar pick-like thing and sticking it in the left side of my mouth, while the other doctor pulls my cheek back. They begin scraping and filling and the second dentist moves the suction tube all around my mouth. I think I have three hands and four instruments in my mouth at the same time. Plus one of the hands is all the way in the back of my mouth, partially gagging me. I grimace.

“Are you okay, little duckling?” the first dentist asks me.

I don’t answer. How can I? How do they expect me to answer when they’re shoving all manner of objects inside my mouth?

The cement tastes sour and I keep grimacing. Every time I did so, the first dentist asks if I’m all right, each time calling me a something different like muffin or cotton candy or candy cane. Each time I don’t answer, so she gives up trying to strike a conversation with me and talks with the other dentist.

“Did you see the new purse she had? I swear it’s the exact same one that Jenny lost a few days back. Oh, poor Denise, Jenny blamed the theft on her…” says the first.

“Why do you suppose she blamed it on Denise?” inquires the second.

They both take their hands out of my mouth and think. I can’t believe it! My jaws are aching from keeping my mouth open and they’re stopping their work to think about a piece of gossip they’d heard! I want to take out all of the instruments that they’d left in my mouth and yell at them to get going!

However, before I can, the first dentist picks up her tools again and says, “I suppose it’s because Denise has so many purses, poor duck.”

The second dentist looks out the window at the purpling sky and complains, “Why isn’t it raining already?! The sky is full to bursting!”

“You know what?” remarks the first dentist, “I bet it’s going to start raining right at 5:00 when we get out. Oh, the traffic is going to be terrible!” She said this all in practically one breath.

“I wouldn’t know,” says the second, “I live real close to here.”

The first dentist says to me, “We’re going to paint stars on your teeth now, lamb chop.”

I’ve always wondered what “stars” were. Do they really paint actual stars on your teeth? What good would that do? If not, is “stars” an acronym? What does it stand for?Superbly Treacherous Amoral Remedy? Sure To Ache Recipient? If they do actually paint stars, when they’re training to be a dentist, do they have to take art classes on the proper way to paint a star? Is there also a class on annoying names dentists can call their patients? If so, my first dentist should be the head professor on the subject.

I start listening to their conversation a hoping to see if they are talking about anything else weird. I find that to call what they are saying “weird” is an understatement.

“What are you doing for lunch today?” asks the second dentist.

“I’m going to Jimmy’s Deli because I haven’t been there in months. It makes me gassy. I guess it’s the Brussels sprouts. I’m going to take them out of my sandwich this time but, man, you should have heard me last time! I was like ‘oh my gosh,’” replied the first nonchalantly.

What. The. Heck. I’m lying here with my mouth wide open and five instruments and three hands in my mouth and they’re talking about Brussels sprouts and farts! Who even puts Brussels sprouts in their sandwich? Who even likes Brussels sprouts?! I want to sit up and tell them how crazy they are, but I have eight things in my mouth weighing me down. Ten if you include the guitar pick and gauze they stuffed in there. After a while of mindless chattering, the first dentist pulls out the guitar pick and gauze and puts them on the tray with a disgusted look etched in her face. They are sopping wet with my spit.

“Ewww!” I hear her say.

Yep, that’s me. I’m their worst nightmare. She sticks new gauze and a new guitar pick in my mouth and continues painting stars on my teeth. She tells me she has to re-do one of the stars because my spit washed it off. As if it’s my fault; I can’t control that!

“My, you’re drooling up a storm here, honey cake!” she says cheerfully.

I want to scream. That’s not the most complimenting thing to say to a girl with a sore jaw and short temper.

When all the gagging, scraping, sucking, filling, and name-calling is done, I sit up and the dentist tells me I can pick a prize. I feel a little surprised because I thought they had deemed me too old for toys since I’m 13. A child-like glee falls over me and I pick a green ball. For what feels like hours of torture, my reward is a small super bouncy ball. Small pickings, but that’s okay. I can finally go home! When I go out to the waiting room, I find that my sister had taken the nose and now felt a little loopy. She was just slightly annoying on the car ride home. All in all, I got out of school early and I got a ball, but I’m not going to say it wasn’t all that bad, because it was. But it was pretty funny…