The dental choke

A nagging tooth that had dentin hypersensitivity caused a lot of discomfort over the last weekend. Each time I visited a cousin of mine, I was told about how I must stop my zeal for brushing my teeth too hard and avoid using a hard-bristled toothbrush. Consoling me on each visit, he would send me away with a specific toothpaste to desensitise this tooth or give me some surgical medication and a pack of advice. However, this tooth continued to misbehave, and ignoring it was impossible. Quick attention from my husband had him block an appointment with a dentist nearby, whose father was a known acquaintance. Assured by all, that this would be a quick fix before the weekend began, I went to the dental clinic with all trepidation. On the way my husband talks to me about this gentleman father whose dream was to ensure that all his three sons studied medicine, something that he could not achieve. Well, the questions that raced through my heavy head was: were they passionate about medicine or were they forced to study medicine just because the parent dreamt of it?

A young, smart dentist greets my husband and then beckons me to sit on the dental chair. He took a quick look at my tooth as I quietly gazed at his face, trying to assess his expressions, and weighing his questions carefully before answering. With a mouth wide open and anxiety making my heart pound faster and harder, I realised how helpless mankind is at the hands of the dentist. Little did I ever realise that the dental chair can be a chair that can make you pray fervently to all the gods you could remember. He quickly told me what it was and said that he would perform a root canal. What? Was I to be given some time to discuss this over, and consultation would be the next step? I felt cheated at once. All the while I was told how good my oral hygiene was and here was a dentist not even giving me time to think about the next steps. Could I rise from the chair? No! The beam in front of my face and the recline of the chair, paralysed my otherwise quick reflexes. In fact, I did not even have him grant me time to talk to my husband. A husband, who had surrendered me to the dentist and kept himself busy on his Instagram account. Insensitive like the tooth I thought to myself.

The word ‘canal’ had by then drawn up sinister images of a canal running through my mouth and the tooth floating in my mouth. The nurse was quick to bring across all the required tools, and she seemed adept at it. The procedure, he quickly mumbled, would last an hour or so, and then he had the courtesy to check if I had ever been under local anaesthesia. The only time I remembered was during my pregnancy and the caesarean, and even before I could answer him smartly, I realised that my mouth could not be shut because he had his fingers in my mouth. For the first time ever, I felt helpless in life, and there was no way I could draw the attention of my husband, who had chosen to indulge his time sensibly in technology. Promptly, the dentist gave me a set of instructions for the numbness that would be in my mouth for some time. And then he said, ‘Raise your left hand if there is pain and your right for any discomfort’ during the procedure. As the process continued, I had myself surrendering to him, who was God now, and the prayers were in priority two. The gods could come down later, but this man had my life in his gloved hands, I thought. A couple of times I raised my hands, the right first and then the left, but to no avail. He seemed to have conveniently forgotten that he had given me instructions and that teaching was my profession too, and I followed the instructions well. The last resort I had was to tap at his elbow and signal to him how discomforting it was to me and that I could hardly breathe. He gave me a quick gap and said it would all be over, and then he said, ‘Since you do not open your mouth well and have difficulty keeping your mouth wide open, I shall use a mouth prop’. That was bad, and I had myself raising both my hands this time, and for once, I had this cold fear that I was at the mercy of death. He comforted me when he saw my eyes rolling all over, and I could but remember Emily Dickinson and my professor, who discussed the poem, ‘Because I could not stop for Death’. Is this what death is all about? I had a flimsy tooth sensitivity that would take away my breath as I sat on that dental chair, gazing at the dentist’s face. In between, I could hear him now talk to his dentist assistant, who I presumed at the time was also a dentist, and instruct her to ask the chemist downstairs for something. I could hear her come back and say that the chemist had no stock of whatever he was asking for. He then instructed her to check with some other pharmacy closeby and hurried her, clearly irritated by her slow reaction to his instruction. When the procedure was complete, it was his dentist assistant who gave me the list of antibiotics and dismissed me as if nothing had happened.

Three days later, when I went back as advised, I had the dentist inspect my mouth and then take measurements for the crown. A crown — the crown that I always looked up to with pride and imagined only a queen’s head carrying it — would now be placed on this back tooth of mine. What pride! The famous mouth prop was used again, and there was an unpleasant session again with the dentist. Was he using these instruments like he would cut meat at home and cook for his dentist wife? I wondered. Soon after, he explained the options I had for the crown: no diamonds, no gold, but metal and natural. The last appointment was for the fixing of the crown. This one would make him infamous, I thought to myself. This time the wife takes over and fixes the crown and says, There should be no discomfort, but if there is, please get back to me. As I waited at the counter to make the final payments, she fidgeted between her number and that of her dentist husband and then decided that I ought to transfer it to her number. My immensely pleased spouse then decides to call the dentist, thank him for his expertise, and discuss aftercare tips, if any. Once we were home, he called him back and explained that he had made all payments to the lady at the counter, and like the ‘men types’ asks, ‘is she your wife?’ To which the dentist says, ‘she is my own wife, Saar!’ Own wife???…..the choke continues…..