Today is dentist day! Oh pure joy. I haven't had a check up in two years and I know exactly what's coming. It's not that I'm afraid of the dentist, I just have issues with the whole process. I know I need treatment and I know what for, so why have I not been? Well, firstly, I can't afford it. Of course, I could have afforded it if I had saved my Friday night wine money for my fillings. That is as likely to happen as my pizza dragon coming to life and cooking the pizzas on his own.
The truth is, that in this country regular dentistry is for those with spare income or for benefit recipients. There is no in-between. If I am to afford the costs for a scale and polish, a filling here and there, or worse, I must be prepared to forego holidays and wine, or leave it until it's an emergency and get a freebie at hospital, treatment on the house. (Sadly, I have done that before). As I'm not unemployed, I'm not pregnant, and I'm not a child, I have to pay. I'm an artist and whilst I am blessed and grateful for my life, (thank you Universe), I can't ever really afford to go to the dentist, so I need to save up. And prepare.
Going to the dentist for me is a huge event for which I have a carefully developed ritual. I have never met a dentist yet who wasn't perfectly nice, however, they instil an innate smallness in me. I am, sadly, the recipient of some splendid 1970's dentistry, thus my teeth aren't great. How are you with sugar? Always asked upon first inspection of my gob full of lead. Actually I don't eat all that much. I prefer a cracker or two and some cheese. After they snap themselves out of their disbelief, shoot a sideways glance at the silent nurse, standing by to mop up saliva from my chin, 'Oh that's good. Sugar is terribly bad for your teeth." Really?
Assumption... there's a word. Assume makes an ASS out of U and ME ... I make my assumptions about THEM as they make their assumptions about ME. Quietly chastised by glances and jargon. They're ever so polite but can't quite manage to make me feel good enough for a return visit.
Going to the dentist is a grim task which I must undertake to stop my crumbling molars from further decay and hopeful get to keep a few into my 80's, should I be lucky enough to live that long. Because of my not-so-great teeth and their wayward holey-ness, the encounter leaves me feeling small. Very small and inadequate. Distant memories of a terrifying iron fire escape , which I was small enough to fall through, and my sister wailing like a fire engine don't help. I haven't quite figured out why I feel like this. Is it because I was brought up to respect and revere medical professionals, be a good patient, be subservient. The historical patriarchy of the NHS, perpetuated by a good mother asking her children to do as the nice doctor says.
"My teeth aren't great."
"They're not too bad."
I've had poor teeth since I was a child."
"Really?"
Feeling comforted and relaxed, I take up the offer to lie back for inspection. I take my personal space boundaries very seriously and such close physical proximity to a judging, poking human makes me feel wholly uncomfortable. The only time my face would be inches from a guy/gal in their wrinkle-less twenty-somethings is if I was hugging my son or daughter, or one of their friends, or if I was unconscious for whatever reason, and this I beg for on a regular basis when I'm about to have treatment and I keep begging until they get sick of me, give in, and knock me out.
It wouldn't be so bad if they were a little older..I think.
"Which dentist would you like to see Kathryn?"
"Your oldest, wrinkliest, saggiest one please."
Is not a conversation I can have upon making the appointment call, so I just work my way through them all until I find one I can relate to. My usual victim shares my daughter's name, that will do.
My confidence varies depending upon what time of year it is and whether I'm in my winter body. My winter body consists mostly of fat, sugar and wine. I feel slightly less intimidated, worthless and judged in the summer.
"Oh you're nice and brown." Friendly.
"I work outdoors." You don't have a window. Unnecessarily smug.
At least when i'm a little slimmer and a little bit less pasty I feel like I'm almost an equal and not a small, naughty, sugar-eating child who didn't brush her teeth properly.
And so before my visits, to boost my confidence, I give my whole head the holiday regime. I pluck my eyebrows, don't want a straggler poking an eye out, I exfoliate my face to within an inch of its life. I check for pimples, stray chin hairs, worse, snots. I shower and wash my hair, (even when i'm going straight to the pool, which is ridiculous), apply a nice smelling product. I deodorise. And again. I make sure my shoes are immaculately clean and my socks match (Rare. See Airport blog for further odd sock saga). My whole body will be on the table and my feet in full judgey view. I dress carefully. Not that they care, but I do. Feeling small, chubby, and a bit naughty, with some teeth missing is cute when you're two, but not when you're 22 times 2, plus a few.
Something that will make me look not quite as incapable as my teeth. Purposeful. Walking clothes, artist clothes (Artist clothes?) Something that will fasten at the waist is a good start. A Great North Swim T-shirt. Look, I'm really fit..I can swim. Walking pants. I'm keen. Walking boots. So I can kick anyone who tries to pin me down then run like hell.
I brush my teeth thoroughly, as always, and I add an extra minute. This will make a huge difference. I rinse and floss. I floss again after hearing yesterday that gum disease is linked to dementia. I have had an electric toothbrush for exactly one month now, but I forget to charge it. I wonder if they'll notice? I apply a tiny dab of toothpaste to the corners of my mouth and turn to the make-up.
My make up bag is functional. It consists of one mascara, one tiny stump of eye pencil, one rouge, and a pair of tweezers. Carefully. Not too much mascara, it will run down my face when I cry. Not enough eye liner to make me look like one of those women who cares more about her face than she does her teeth, although that would be hard.
Depending on the outfit, I either take a bag or stuff my utility pockets. I only ever take a hand bag out on three occasions. Girls days out, when I'm usually asked to carry umbrellas; funerals, and dentist visits. The contents are pretty much the same.
Chewing gum to freshen my already scrubbed mouth.
Tissues for tears, snot and dribble.
Phone, on silent, like in church.
A pen for signing my life and my teeth away.
A diary to look super organised and like I hadn't really forgotten all those appointments.
I'm sure the dentist didn't think my initials were D.N.A.
A scarf to hide my wrinkly neck which I got from my mam (the scarf, not the neck)
Lip balm. I've spent a week walking in the snow, ice, and windy conditions without it, trying to entice an attack of herpes simplex. Dentists don't like that and make you cancel. It didn't work. I apply lip balm. I have happy lips.
Lastly, and importantly, two hair bobbles. One for my unruly mass of too-long-for-my-age hair, which I envisage getting caught up and twisted around the drill cable before yanking it out by the roots. And one for my wrist. To twiddle. It's a comfort thing. The pins and needles when I cut off the circulation as I tourniquet it under stress, help take my mind off the poking.
All prepared and I'm ready to go.
I forget how to drive but manage to get there in one piece and manoeuvre the car into a space despite the violent trembling of my clutch leg.
"Name?"
"Who me or the computer screen?"
"Address?"
I told her while I was looking at the water machine. she didn't notice because she hadn't yet lifted up her head. Here we go.
The notices on the wall fill in the time.
'If you are late, unfortunately it may be necessary to reschedule your appointment.' Dammit I'm early.
'If you have an active cold sore, we regret the dentist may not be able to see you.' I tried.
'Children not to operate this the water machine.' Is that because children aren't allowed water or because they may have far too much fun and accidentally spill some.
And the best.
'We now offer cosmetic beauty treatment. Botox. Lip fillers. Anti-wrinkle treatment. Laser hair removal.' Good Lord above. This only serves to further shrink my confidence and boost my already heightened anxieties. My functional make-up bag now seems completely pointless. I could have just popped upstairs for a few hundred quids' worth of paralysing puffing up and I'd have looked great.
Free Corsodyl toothpaste samples. I don't take one in case everyone thinks I'm a poor person with gum disease.
"I'm just getting your medical records." To the computer screen.
"Kathryn Thompson."
Doom.
"Hello, it's a long time since you've been to the dentist." Judgemental.
"Yes, I couldn't afford it. I had to sell a house before I could pay for treatment."
Did I really just say that?
"I had no money and that's sad but I guess that's the way it is. I had to save up. And wait." Passive aggressive.
Nurse: "I understand. Many people are in the same situation."
Sympathetic smile. She was actually quite nice. And not much younger than me.
"What's your occupation?"
"I'm an artist."
Blank.
"Do you smoke."
"No."
"Do you drink alcohol?"
Oh yes.
"I do like red wine."
I think he actually rolled his eyes.
"How much?"
"Ermmmm..."
"It says here 20 units."
"Oh that sounds about right." Inwardly cringing at the massive whopper.
"That's twice as much as you should be drinking, you need to have a few days off and cut down."
I know this. I came about my teeth...
"I used to work for the NHS and give talks on safe alcohol and tobacco use."
Overly aggressive. Next time I'll make the lie bigger and the units smaller. Ruminating after the fact, possible retorts could have included, 'I already halved my intake!', 'I do have days off, I drink it all in one go.' , and 'I am transmuting your negativity and sending you an abundance of positive healing vibes.' I took off my brand new soft shell jacket, exposing last year's GNS T-shirt, and threw the jacket onto a chair.
"You can hang it up on the...." I looked at her and she closed her mouth.
"Please take a seat." There was only one available. The one with the control buttons and an interrogation lamp.
Once I had my mouth open, the t-shirt, walking boots, hair cream, toothpaste, disappear into startling irrelevance. I'll still do it all again next time.
As I lie back with my glasses on, I breathe deeply and slowly and I ask my spirit guides, the angels and the Universe to watch over me and the man with the tray full of sharp poky implements and I wait for the inspection tool to connect with my inner soul. I have highly sensitive teeth, gums, and personality.
"We need to take your gums back to square one."
I ponder on what that could mean. Pain, yes, most certainly.
"I floss."
"Too hard, it's like cheese wire."
I do a mental eye roll and send him Reiki for gentle hands.
I want to tell him to get out of my Emotional Layer, he's muddying my colours, but his hand is in my mouth. I make a noise like a frightened mouse.
"It's just air.....look...." He squirts it onto my hand and I jump like I've been electrocuted.
No. I'm seven years old again. I don't want to look. I know what it is. Air is for breathing, not for squirting at people. I feel a tear prick as he informs me of my inflammation. My fingers go numb.
Afterwards, clutching my soggy (fifth) tissue, taken down a peg or two, and grateful, I thank them profusely for taking me to the brink of a breakdown, giving me a list of future torture treatments, like the counter to the nice spa therapist, here is the list, this is the cost, which would you like first? We would recommend... I don't know, ooh let me think, so much to choose from.....perhaps I'll have the root canal ...can't wait for my next appointment...yes of course I'll be on time, look I've got, my pen.. see?
"Are you free on the 15th of this month?"
"Ermm, no I have a meeting on that day." I have a career too.
"Well perhaps you had better see the receptionist on your way out." I am a very busy dentist, lady.
I see the receptionist. She tells the computer screen thank you, have a nice day.
I leave.
At home with coffee, hubby asks me how it went. I show him my treatment list and I vent my passive aggression in his direction and he sighs a silent sigh. Worse than the visit to the dentist is the fact that my husband has near-perfect, lead-less teeth. Well, sorry, he still has one tiny baby tooth hanging on in there, which he often reminds me of as an indication of his not-quite-perfectness in an attempt to make me feel better each time I profess my disappointment in my faulty teeth genes. He needed a small filling a few years ago. It rocked his world. They gave him white for cosmetic reasons. He couldn't possibly begin to understand. He is wiser than to add comment until I've finished venting.
My friend understands. She doesn't go to the dentist until it becomes necessary to pull the offending tooth, and is happy to eat soft food when she's old. We're going to the spa this afternoon, then home to drink wine. I'll cut down tomorrow.
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I am an artist and a writer of poetry, auto-fiction and about life observations. My writing is truth-based with a little artistic licence, (ok exaggeration). Does everyone feel like this about the dentist? I suspect not. Our medical professionals have to be clinical, we wouldn't want them to be any other way, but why do I feel sub-human and super-vulnerable at the dentist? I'm fine with GP and hospital visits. I would love a small amount of friendly chat, a little interest in who I am. Maybe they just don't have time for this. Why do I feel so inadequate? There's a big question. Trust is a huge issue when someone you don't know is poking something sharp into one of the most sensitive areas of your body, especially when the only way you can move would make the sharp thing jab further into your face. When I squirmed in the dentist chair as a child, my dentist yelled, "For God's sake, sit still!" My mother promptly removed us all from the surgery and found another dentist. The new guy was lovely, and I went there for ten years, but I still remember how badly his hands shook just before he retired, which scared me even more. I don't have any answers other than general anaesthetic. Do they do that privately?
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