ANNIE’S NOT OKAY-AN ANXIETY ANECDOTE

At 8:00 this morning, I was lying in an Endodontist’s office, held down by a three-pound lead apron as the twenty-something female assistant shoved a too-big device into my too-small mouth then used something resembling a speed-trap radar gun — what was she trying to do, check how fast my gag reflex was?

I admit it. I am what an episode of Seinfeld coined a million years ago — I am an Anti-dentite.

There’s just something unsavory about the entire Dentist and Dentist-adjacent experience. Every appointment starts the same. Immediately, the wail of a Dremel tool screaming assaults you upon entering the facility. Then, you’re led to one of several tiny surgical rooms, where a masked marauder waterboards with a high-volume Waterpik as you recline in a Lazy Boy.

Let’s not forget the torture device trays, kept at patient eye level, where drills, elephant tranquilizing darts, and mini pickaxes are wheeled right to you like some demented carhop — I don’t want what she’s having, thank you very much.

What about the smell of burning flesh coming from you? Or the saw-slash-wood chipper apparatus that turns whole teeth into a gazillion pieces like confetti at an angry Tooth Fairy convention?

Or the Hoover that’s inserted, like a giant straw, that’s supposed to suck up all the left-over debris, but that never gets it all, evident by the shrapnel found in your soup days later — like a cement washout on a construction site.

And then there’s the pain, oh, the pain!

Everything about the experience begins and ends with horrible pain — gummed together in the middle with, yes, more pain.

Today’s visit started two weeks ago. I had a routine check-up that found a cavity, which somehow turned into replacing two old fillings with two temporary crowns (no, not crowns like a Queen might wear — though almost just as expensive) that made the entire right side of my face swell (as if I was a method actor starring in a revamp of the 80’s movie, Mask), resulting in what sounded like Pop Rocks in my cheek when I ate, yawned (or just sat there), that meant another appointment to figure out what the hell happened and what the hell will happen, that led to this morning’s consultation for a possible Root canal or two.

It felt like the live-action version of that child’s rhyme, There Was an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly — I Don’t Know Why She Swallowed the Fly, Perhaps She’ll Die. (Also, is the depiction of someone with an eating disorder or dementia something we should read with our kids? I mean, maybe, if it’s the only non-curled, non-People Magazine reading material left at the Dentist’s office — I don’t know!)

All this experience ended with the Endodontist announcing that no, I probably didn’t need a Root canal or two (adding, but only time can tell) and that my actual teeth are fine (again, for now). What he concluded was that the big problem was me!

I’m used to this kind of reaction too, as is everybody who goes to the Dentist. The patient pays not only for the visit but also for the victim blaming and shaming (and your insurance rarely covers all three).

“Do you floss? Well, you need to do it more.”

“Do you have Fluoride? Well, even if it’s in your water, you must buy it from us.”

“Did you miss your six-month check-up? No? Well, we should probably start seeing you three times a quarter, just to be safe.” And repeat.

However, shockingly today, the Endodontist was a nice guy — and his assistant was kind enough to leave the three-pound lead apron on me as a weighted blanket to keep my anxiety from catapulting me into the atmosphere where a 747 will suck me into its engine and then spit me out into shark-infested waters. Yes, I think about things like this. I can’t help it, which is what brought me here in the first place.

My big face, mouth, and teeth debacle was caused by me intensely grinding my jaw and incessantly clinching my teeth! This is an anxiety thing. I am gnawing myself to death or, really, to pain!

Now, I must begin a new journey, one that begins with muscle relaxers, deep-tissue massages, and heating pads and ends with me figuring out better ways to handle stressors. Sigh.

Oh, and to top off this illuminating experience, I still must go back to the Dentist and swap out my temporary crowns with real ones. What a pain!