Pink Sunglasses, White Teeth, Red Blood: Growing up in the Dentist’s Chair

Published November 27, 2007
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By Lea McLellan I was sick of pink plastic sunglasses, happy teeth stickers, and having nothing to read but Highlights Magazine while I waited for the lady at my pediatric dentist’s office to mispronounce my name. Hello — I’m in college now. Happy teeth be damned.

After my last visit, I made my decision — a dental hygienist would never ask me what color sparkly toothbrush I wanted ever again. So the only logical thing for me to do was to complain my way to the grown-up dentist. When I arrived for my first adult appointment, I took note of Time magazine on the coffee table. Finally. This is where I belonged. A woman in gray (not rainbow kitty cat) scrubs called my name and she even said it right! This was going to be good.

As I sat in the dentist chair awaiting my routine cleaning, I looked at a poster that illustrated the amount of sugar found in breakfast cereal bars and raisins. Interesting. As I sat there comparing the grams and thinking about how worthless my old dentist was, the hygienist walked in and reclined the chair. Wow, I thought, she didn’t even ask me pointless questions about how I liked school. This woman really had it together.

I think it’s important to note that I am an avid brusher and I floss daily. I usually don’t even mind the dentist because of all the positive reinforcement I receive. At my old dentist, the woman in bright pink kitty scrubs would exclaim over how nice and white my smile was. “The best teeth I’ve seen all day,” she would say.

But this next part is difficult to recount. The woman in the gray scrubs flicked on the overhead light. It shone uncomfortably through my pink sunglasses-less eyelids. This new, gloved assailant didn’t speak as she chipped away plaque I never knew existed. I had approached my appointment confident and relaxed. Now my legs were stiff and my knuckles white from gripping the chair I so desperately wanted to leap from. When she told me to rinse and spit, my worst fears were realized. Forget about plaque, judging from the contents of the saliva swirling down the drain of the tiny sink, the woman had moved on in her hateful work to rip out my gums and enamel.

I wanted to cry out in pain, to tell her to stop, but my manners wouldn’t allow it. Besides, I was too shocked to speak. From my vantage point on the chair, I could see her gloved hands protruding from my mouth. Her cold, latex fingertips were stained with blood. My blood.

If growing up felt like a punch in the mouth, I was no longer in such a hurry to become an adult. I wanted my stickers. I needed my stickers. When she was finished, I stood up from the chair. My legs felt like jelly as I dazedly walked towards the waiting room. My eyes must have communicated my despair.

“Oh no, did you get the rough one?” my mother asked in hushed tones.

I hadn’t been aware that there was a “rough one,” but the obvious answer was yes, I had got- ten her. Apparently my mom had suffered through the same torture and had almost cried. My mom was an adult wasn’t she? And she didn’t appreciate someone attacking her molars either. I wasn’t still a baby after all. I was just a person. If you poke me with a sharp, stainless steel hook, I will bleed.

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