I Never Feel More Ashamed Of Myself Than When I Go To The Dentist

I have done many less-than-noble things in my life; cheated in a relationship, hidden from a blind person, put up a Facebook status that simply consisted of a sad face for attention, but I never feel more ashamed of myself than when I go to the dentist.

I dodge their messages telling me I need to go in for a check-up for as long as possible to avoid paying the equivalent of a mortgage to be made to feel like a criminal. It always happens. I get there, thinking ‘maybe this time will be different, I’ve been brushing twice a day, using mouthwash, and flossing semi-regularly’ only to have someone’s plastic gloved fingers shoved down my throat while they berate me for 20 minutes, comparing my mouth hygiene to a festering, stagnant dumpster that’s so disgustingly vile, even a family of flea-ridden rats who like to bathe in their own faeces would turn their noses up at it.

Eventually, gnawing tooth pain means I have put off the inevitable for too long and must go to the dentist. As soon as I open the door to the practice, I’m greeted warmly by the smiling receptionist who asks for my name. As soon as I give it the atmosphere turns frosty. The tone shifts to one of disappointment. ‘Oh yes. Hello Rhian. We’ve been calling you for a long time. A very long time… Please. Take a seat.’ I do. The receptionist lets the dentist know I’m here. I hear her whispering down the phone ‘Turns out she isn’t dead, she’s back. And her breath f***ing stinks’. Or words to that effect.

‘RHIAN.’ The dentist calls, sticking her head out of a nearby door. I stand so she can see I’m still here and haven’t run off. (The receptionist locked the entrance.) She looks at me like I’ve punched her child in the face, then disappears back into the room, letting the door shut behind her. Like one walking the Green Mile, I follow.

‘SIT DOWN.’ The assistant forces me back and switches on the overhead light to make sure my retinas are burned off before giving me the special dentist sunglasses.

‘We’ve been calling you, Rhian.’ The Dentist says hauntingly, her back to me as she prepares what I can only imagine is a lethal injection.

‘Yes, I know, I ju-’

‘We’ve been calling you for months and months and months. And messaging. No reply. Not a single reply.’ She carries on, cutting me off.

‘Yes, I’m sorry about that, it’s just I couldn’t affor-’

‘And now, here you are. After all this time. 18 months, is it?’

‘I’m not su-’

‘So’, she turns to me, plastic gloves on, holding a syringe the size of Peel. The disdain in her eyes has been replaced by a manic glee. ‘Let’s see what the problem is.’

Her assistant, lowers the chair, prizes my mouth open with a bite block, making me look like a rejected Wallace and Gromit character, and shoves a suction tube aggressively into my mouth.

‘I see on your form you’ve said that you floss, is that correct?’ She asks me.

‘Ahiasiqwdas’ I try to reply.

‘Shut up, Rhian.’ The dentist snaps back.

She starts scraping my teeth with the ferocity of a Royal Marine descaling the underside of a tank then moves onto stabbing my gums. Blood fills my mouth, the giveaway that I don’t actually floss. ‘Liar’, I hear her mumble.

The assistant has stopped paying attention to the suction tube, which is now trapped under my tongue, making that noise a hoover makes when the family hamster gets stuck in it. I try my best to swallow away some fluids without dislocating my jaw and feel blood and water dribble down the side of my face.

‘Pathetic. RINSE.’ The dentist demands. I do so self-consciously.

‘Right, she’s got an abrasion on the Distal, Buccal, Palatal, Lingual, and the Occlusal on the upper, lower, horizontal, and hexagonals of 1, 14, 76, 2, 27, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 -upwards to 87, then the same, plus major deconstruction and chronic irrigation in the centre scrummage of 100 through to 130. She’s also got a skip’s worth of artificial flushing in the gum area and a Muskrat infestation behind the two front teeth.’

I watch as the assistant draws small skulls on all but one tooth on the HD computer screen.

‘Rhian. You’re going to need to book another hygienist appointment for in 2.75 weeks’ time, and book 150 separate appointments at £1000 apiece to get through the 786 fillings you need. Book an extra one for teeth whitening because yours are the colour of p*ss-covered snow, oh and you’re going to need a brace too, which will be an added £9000. You’re also going to need to start using special mouthwash, toothpaste, and flossing tools, which, lucky for you, we sell at the discounted price of £650 each and you should get an electric toothbrush too, which you can also get from reception for £2000. Quite frankly, Rhian, you are the most disgusting creature I have ever had the displeasure of working on. And should be incredibly ashamed of yourself.’

Once again, I leave emotionally and financially broken. Look out for a sad face Facebook status.