I have been visiting the dentist lately, and it has provoked a few peculiar thoughts to come to the surface of my conscious. I had never stepped foot in a dental clinic before this horrific experience, not out of fear, but rather out of sloth. What motivated me to move my lazy behind were merely cosmetic purposes, which eventually led to mental disturbance. Why am I not surprised?
On my first visit, last week, I was ushered into an equipped room at the dentist’s clinic. The angelic nurse told me that the doctor would be there shortly. I sat on the long chair, facing a dark window and about thirty tools and machines I had never seen before.
The more I waited the more instruments I discovered to be in the room. It is a little bit similar to spotting more stars the more one gazes at the sky, except that it (noticing dental instruments) generates very uncomfortable feelings, and you cannot really pray to the tools to bless your existence. Therefore, I was not totally shocked by my sudden fantasy; to take the dental cloth off my chest, get down the chair, and run out of the room and out of the clinic screaming fright out loud. It is a shame I did not do it. The doctor, in her un-dentist apparel, had arrived.
Without getting into the repelling details, my first visit to the dentist was filled with tears, shock, fright and resentment. I could not wait to smoke my cigarette as I walked out of the clinic. I could not wait to forget how victimized I felt. I could not wait to stop regarding the matter as if it were tragic.
A week after my first overcome appointment, I had another one. I went late and sleepy, and I sat in the waiting hall reading some work-related material, until a little boy’s shriek sprayed uneasiness in the air. His cries grew louder by the tick of the nerve-wrecking wall clock, and all his cries reminded me of was one scene:
Nineteen Eighty-Four, by George Orwell, when Winston Smith was being tortured by his deepest fear; rats:
“He had moved a little to one side, so that Winston had a better view of the thing on the table. It was an oblong wire cage with a handle on top for carrying it by [...]. Although it was three or four metres away from him, he could see that the cage was divided lengthways into two compartments, and that there was some kind of creature in each. They were rats.”
I immediately visualized a scene inside the shut room. A little boy, whose cries snag your heart out of your chest, the doctor’s tools messing inside his tiny mouth, and a number of nurses, evil ones, surrounding him as they try to keep the poor thing quiet. I wondered if I would act as spontaneous as he did once it was my dreadful turn. The fantasy of running away in screams like a child revisited me for a flickering second, as the call of my name interrupted my wishful thinking.
Once again, without diving within details, the whole experience was overall unpleasant. I felt like my mouth was ALBA, and the doctor and the nurses were engineers and workers, digging, filling and polishing. I managed to stay generally calm, despite the tears and the needles and the revolting bitter smell of whatever it is that smells ghastly in all medical institutions.
After years of not having solid material of which based on I could fabricate a visualization of a dentist in my imagination, now I do. Dentists, in my own twisted issue-jammed mentality, are sadist dictators that compel you to revisit them every 6 months, if not every two weeks, in order for them to introduce a yet additional source of stress and agitation to your miserable lonely life.
31st October 2005