I have developed a special way of sitting in the patient’s chair so that to the outside observer, it appears as though I am comfortable, about to drift off to sleep perhaps. I grasp my hands together across my stomache, and it is this alone, the act of squeezing my hands together, that allows me to live through a visit to the dentist. I suppose if I didn’t have any hands, I could express my pain and discomfort by making sharp squealing noises, but I imagine that would be very alarming to the dentist holding the pickaxe in my mouth.

Pain aside though, dentist visits are good for self reflection. They are one of the few situations in life where you don’t feel the need to engage the person you’re with, even when she is just 2 inches from your face. While having my gums ripped into, I thinkt about my saliva glands. And then I curse them. My dentist often tells me about how mineral-rich my saliva is and how this leads to excess plaque build up. (I don’t do internet dating, but if I did, that is what I would write on my profile and can you imagine the winners I could get?) It sounds harmless enough doesn’t it? But no matter how much I brush and floss, the build up continues. Which is why this morning she is using a few different pickaxes to chisel it all away. And in between switching from lighter pickaxes to the industrial-sized ones, she heaves heavy sighs. It is a little embarrassing, but there is no where to escape to, so I think about other things. 

I hear the nurses in the other room talking about scrubs. I wish I had a reason to wear scrubs. If I could wear scrubs, I would surely need a pair of Crocs to go with them, and I would be set. Maybe while I’m staying at the hospital with Alan after his surgery next week, I will dress in my dream outfit and see just how much better life could be.