“Am I your first victim of the day?” I asked casually as I settled back into the terrifyingly clinical leather chair.
“Yes,” the dental nurse replied without hesitation. She paused, caught herself, and managed a weak, nervous smile. “Err… I mean patient. First patient.”
It did not fill me with an overwhelming sense of confidence.
I was in for a double-dosage of dental treatment: first, a session with the hygienist—a specialist in medieval torment whom I shall refer to as Sister Helga—followed immediately by the dentist himself.
After a brief initial inspection, Sister Helga peered down at me. “Your teeth are looking pretty good,” she noted. “Just a bit of staining at the back. Do you drink tea or coffee?”
I was sorely tempted to reply, “Of course I do, I’m not a saint,” but I quickly thought better of it. Upsetting someone who is about to wield an array of sharp metal instruments inside your mouth felt like a severe tactical error.
Besides, to this day, I have zero recollection of ever agreeing to book a hygienist appointment. Nobody in their right mind actively requests one. I certainly don’t remember them existing when I was younger. I am increasingly convinced the entire profession was invented as a clever, high-yield revenue scheme by the dental guild.
As I lay there with my jaw wedged open, an industrial-grade water jet blasted into one cheek while a high-pitched sonic cutter scraped furiously at the other. I reflected that this must be remarkably close to what waterboarding feels like.
At the start of the ordeal, the nurse had kindly placed a pair of dark, tinted safety glasses over my eyes. Initially, I naively assumed they were meant to shield my face from stray water droplets and tooth debris. I quickly realised their true, sinister purpose: they stop the staff from seeing your eyes watering in unadulterated agony.
A full-face balaclava would have been far more appropriate. At least then they couldn’t see your entire visage contorted in sheer, unvarnished pain.
The only brief respite came when they handed me a small paper cup of lukewarm pink rinse. Given the sheer intensity of the preceding ten minutes, I wondered if it had been secretly laced with a mild muscle relaxant to help me “relax my lips.”
Who on earth practices relaxing their lips? It’s hardly something I stand in front of the bathroom mirror rehearsing on a Sunday afternoon. I genuinely wish I’d mastered the skill, though; it might have spared me the severe onset of lock-jaw caused by the array of metal clamps, levers, and spreaders currently deployed inside my mouth.
When I finally staggered through the front door back home, Karen took one look at me.
“I guess you won’t be wanting a cup of coffee, then?” she enquired gently.
“I am never consuming hot liquids again,” I snapped, my jaw still half-frozen. “That was an absolute horror show.”
By lunchtime, my mouth had mercifully settled down. My teeth felt impeccably clean, polished, and shiny—and my wallet felt completely, beautifully empty.
Still, that’s that job ticked off for another twelve months.
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