Friday Confessional: I Am an Odontophobe, Or: How the Dentist Used to Reduce Me to Tears

Friday, Friday (Gotta Get Down on Fri-da-ay).

Long time, no chat, friends.

I swore at the beginning of the summer that I was really, truly going to find the time and make the effort to write more often. Then the sun came out, a cold glass of chardonnay appeared in my hand (or Mich Ultra, or Miller Lite, or Sam Summer, or...you get the picture), and I promptly forgot all intentions of spending a single second more than I had to in front of a screen.

But alas, all good things must come to an end, and it is with this post that I bid adieu to summer. Yesterday evening it was a breezy 65 degrees here in Boston, I've brought a cardigan to work the past three days and, despite a somewhat volatile dewpoint reading, my hair has started to cooperate on a semi-regular basis. Also, it seems like every blogger I read either grew up, attended college or currently resides in The South, which both warms my former Big East-lovin' heart and simultaneously makes me sad because around these parts, football doesn't start for another week (Go Pats!). 

So here we are, another autumn upon us and me in front of a screen with that insatiable urge to put words down because hey, it's September, other peoples' children are all packed off to school and if I had a million dollars, I would be a perpetual student as a career. And so I figured, what better way to break back into the internet than with a long-winded Friday Confession?!

Ok, let's cut to the chase. It's Friday. On Fridays, we wear pink confess our deepest, darkest, most embarrassing thoughts, obsessions and musings.
 

Hello, my name is Caitlin, and I am a recovering odontophobe.

(Hiiiiii, Caitlin)

For all you Classics scholars out there,* you can probably discern that, "odontophobia" comes from the Greeks. The prefix, "odous," meaning "tooth," and suffix, "-phob," meaning "fear of," are pretty self-explanatory.  And there you go (watch out for the Windex).

I should probably put it out there that this term is a bit of a misnomer. Contrary to the literal translation, I do not, in fact, have a fear of teeth; I have a fear of people who deal with teeth. Specifically, I'm afraid of dentists. And dental assistants, dental hygienists, and the occasional judgmental dental practice administrator.

According to that bastion of verifiable and accurate information, Wikipedia, approximately 75% of Americans experience some level of anxiety when dealing with dental professionals. As for the other quarter of the population who apparently finds nothing intimidating about some individual poking around the inner recesses of their bodies without even buying them dinner first, well, bully for them. Freaks.

Although as much as it pains me to admit, I used to be one of them.

Unlike my fear of loud, sudden noises, I did not always tremble at the thought of leaning back in that awkward, sloping chair; in fact, I actually used to like going to the dentist. As a pale, freckled, pigtailed kid who closely resembled Punky Brewster during her heyday, I had a lot going for me from the ages of 4-8. My mom, seizing this golden opportunity, enrolled me in modeling school in Boston when I was five. I had a small measure of success, even appearing in a couple of really terrible retail catalogs and commercials (which, to my knowledge, no longer exist so don't even waste your time combing YouTube). Anyway, my teeth were a large part of the package -- straight with a small, charming gap at the front -- so when it came time for my bi-annual cleaning, I was more than happy to settle back and let the hygienists do their thing. I even suffered the horror that is grape-flavored fluoride and sealant with a smile.

And then we switched dentists.

My new dentist, to whom we shall refer as "Dr. Incompetence" from here on, seemed nice enough at first. He or she (I don't want to alienate said dentist, as I've already complained in every other fashion about him/her and that would be overkill) seemed nice enough at first -- lots of smiles, decent hygienists who didn't hack apart my gums with the wild abandon of that guy in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, etc -- but then the actual procedures started, and my fear of dental professionals was born.

For the record, my siblings and I are all genetically predisposed to weak teeth. Our parents have weak teeth; our grandparents have weak teeth, and I think between the lot of us we are single-handedly responsible for a large portion of dental premiums paid in the northeast. I've actually gotten scolded for flossing too much. You read that right: I have repeatedly been told to SIMMER DOWN WITH THE FLOSS ALREADY. I've also been known to carry a toothbrush and paste around with me in my purse. Unfortunately, I just have very crevacious teeth, full of little nooks and crannies, as well as thinner-than-normal enamel. So despite getting four cleanings per year, cavities and the occasional crack happen.

It was during a repair of these nefarious injuries that Dr. Incompetence first earned his or her name. Working on a tiny filling in a bottom molar, Dr. I managed to drill straight through the crown of the tooth into the nerve. Given that I was not yet afraid of the dentist and it was supposed to be a routine filling, I was on the bare minimum amount of local anesthetic. You can imagine what it's like to have the tip of a dental drill assault your nerve endings full-force. This incident led to a two-stage root canal, during which Dr. I managed to both prescribe me medication to which I am allergic (you'd think a medical professional would know that anyone with a penicillin allergy is allergic to all mold-based drugs...), leading me to a 4am ER call on Martha's Vineyard with debilitating chest pain, as well as to give me a shot of anesthetic DIRECTLY INTO THE NERVE, causing a jolt of what felt like electricity through the front of my jaw. This  also provided me with the delightful sensation of drowning for an hour and a half, since I was numb from my eyeballs through my neck and could not, therefore, feel myself breathing or swallowing.

And so began my fear of the dentist.

Actually taken last week specifically for this post, not numerous years ago

Following this horrifying escapade, it was a long time before I let anyone near my chompers. In fact, after the root canal was done and the temporary filling was placed, I never went back to Dr. I again, choosing instead to live with a temporary filling in the hole she'd made. In retrospect, this was obviously foolish; I should have just found another dentist and had him or her finish the job. Hindsight is 20/20, however, and in my defense, I was suitably traumatized.

Fast-forward a few months years and I admit that, while I was a pro at the whole brush-floss-swish-spit-repeat act, I needed to get in for a professional cleaning. My fear had escalated with each passing month, expanding now not just to actually invasive dental procedures, but also to every aspect of care. Dentists were all sadists who liked torturing me for money, and hygienists were all judgmental and insistent that all of my problems were my own fault (the latter was, however, true; up until this point every hygienist I'd ever encountered had invoked the dental version of chicken-and-the-egg: "Did you just brush and floss before you came in?". Answer yes and they criticize your brushing skills and ability to remove the vestiges of your frosted flakes from your teeth; answer no and they question your entire commitment to satisfactory oral hygiene. There is no right answer, my friends...only a lingering sense of shame).

I mentioned this all to a colleague, who said that the practice she goes to specializes in dental anxiety and is basically full of unicorns and puppies. As I was running out of options and suspected I was a few months away from full-on dentures (which would ironically mean MORE dentists), I called and was shocked when the the cheeriest, most soothing voice of all time answered the phone. Taking a huge breath, I muttered something like:

"HiImcallingbecauseImafraidofthedentistandIneedacleaninganditsbeenawhilewhichisreallyembarrassingandumImighthaveachipinafronttoothmyfriendtoldmeyouguysaregoodcanyouhelp?
 
The Angel Voice on the other end of the line said, "Oh, I so understand. Here's a secret: I'm afraid of the dentist, too. Why don't you tell me a little bit more about your fear and we'll see who we can match you with to help?"

To quote a great scholar:

Two days later, I found myself in The Chair, mouth wide open with a woman my own age measuring the pockets of my gums. Despite my worst fears, she did not make a single comparison between my mouth and that of a Civil War-era soldier's, which I took as a good sign. She kept stopping her work to make sure that I was doing ok, but didn't ever say "tsktsk" or make snide remarks, which was particularly refreshing considering how many judgmental hygienists I've encountered in my time. When she was done, in walked my new dentist, a guy in his 30s with a friendly face who immediately put my fears at ease when he said, "so, I notice you live in the city. I met my wife at a dive bar in Brighton. Have you ever been there?"

My kinda guy.**

It's been almost four years, and I can't count the amount of dental appointments I've had since that first fateful visit to my current practice. Even after my beloved dentist left the practice to pursue a new opportunity closer to home, I decided to give his replacement a shot -- a guy my own age who was only two years out of dental school. And, despite the amount of crying, shaking and doubting I did before my first appointment with him, he turned out to be pretty good, too. I'm even contemplating letting him rip all four wisdom teeth out of my head with nothing but some novacaine and a pair of pliers (he insists this will not be the case; I remain skeptical at best).

And so, to all you other odontophobics out there, I just wanted to tell you that there IS a chance it can get better. Sure, I still have a momentary panic attack while I'm sitting in the waiting room, even if it's just for a cleaning -- but as soon as I am in the chair, head back and doing everything I can not to make awkward eye contact with the hygienist, I calm down because I know that they know I'm like a battered puppy who is trying very hard to trust my new caretakers. Oddly enough, this makes the 40-minute one-way commute to their office absolutely, 100% worth it in both my time and gas money.
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TL;DR version: I used to be terrified of the dentist, finally found a good practice and am now pretty much obsessed with them. If you're scared, too, just take a Xanax first and you should be fine. The end.

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*which I hope there are, since I not only took Honors Ancient Drama in college but also three semesters of Latin, which I found to be horrifyingly fascinating and in which I would have dual-majored if it hadn't taken me so damn long to translate a single sentence from Catullus that my English grades started to slip. But that's another confession for another Friday.

**Andrew and I also met at a dive bar in Brighton.