A Dose of Dental Phobia

Websters defines a phobia as “an irrational fear of something or a situation.” 

Welcome to my world of dental phobia, but I know that I’m not alone in my world. The cure for mine, though, wasn’t therapy. It was a sympathetic, unhurried dentist and a healthy dose, a “pre-gaming” of numbing gel Benzocaine and a shot of Lidocaine. Lidocaine has to be given slowly for increased effectiveness so the technique has to be masterfully done to be part of the cure.

I recently needed two fillings replaced that exceeded their life expectancy. “Have I exceeded mine, too?” I asked the dentist, as I felt like dying might be easier than sitting in that chair right now. The modern drill was born in the 1950’s and its speed of up to 400,000 rpms is faster than a jet engine. Thankfully, this tool has been tamed and quieted over the years. In fact, it should be no surprise that I’m a dental phobic since I’ve had that jet engine drilling into my mouth to fill cavities. Anyone born in the 1980’s and later needs to get on their knees and pray in gratitude since most of them have never experienced that drill and its legendary sound. That’s one of the reasons they play music in the dentist office.

My dentist is known for his gentle approach and I found him after being told that he was patient with dental phobics like me. I had a cleaning with him a few weeks ago and he delivered the blow to me about my two circa 1978 fillings that were breaking down.

“Is it going to hurt?” I asked. He answered, “No. There’s a prospect of decay if ‘we’ don’t take care of them now.” I had to believe him so I made my next appointment. 

There’s a certain bravery of those who walk into dental offices across the country with sweaty palms and that nagging fear that we’re going to die that day in a reclining position while wearing a bib from the impact of a drill that pierced our skull and our obituary will read we died in the dentist chair. Or maybe it doesn’t go that far, but maybe we lose our teeth during the procedure. I have an irrational daydream of getting dentures.

Two weeks later I arrived and slunk into the chair. “I’ll be a good patient,” I promised. I shared a neurotically funny column written by a dental phobic who passed out while her husband was getting his teeth drilled. He, however, had slept through the procedure.  I just couldn’t relate to that guy. My dentist and I discussed phobia origins and the root of humor. (pun intended)

My dentist administered the topical anesthetic which my childhood dentist called “dream dust.” He left the room for a few minutes to allow it to work. I asked the dentist hygienist about her kids. I wanted to talk about my family to get my endorphins flowing, but before I got into the details, my dentist returned and gave me the shot that I was betting on like a racehorse. 

He left again for that to work its magic.  He was getting a little bit of a workout going in and out of the room and I hoped that even if I hadn’t gotten the boost I’d planned, that he would from the experience. I doubted it, though.

When he returned, I asked him to check with his pick, the “explorer,” he called it, to see if it was fully numbed before starting up the drill. I told him I felt a slight tinge and said, “I think I need a little more Lidocaine.”

“If I give you more Lidocaine, you’ll have some facial numbness when you speak and eating and drinking will be messy,” he warned me. “I think that I need it and my husband might send you flowers if I can’t speak,” I nervously joked. He laughed at the joke. Good. Maybe we exchanged some endorphins.

He decided to give me a different type of anesthetic that I hoped ended with “caine.”  It worked beautifully. The “explorer” confirmed I was completely and utterly numbed and it was time for me to face my phobia. I wondered if I also needed an ask for an eye covering but he was explaining everything that he was doing including putting on a vice, (my word, but it’s really called a dental dam).  There’s no “n” in that word but maybe there should be. This plastic dental gadget forces the lips to stretch wide and stay open throughout the procedure and creates a cartoon shape to your face. It works well to keep overly talkative patients from communicating, but it also helps to keep the area dry from saliva and blood during work. I wondered what his rationale was for the use of it.

 I relaxed a little, unclenched my hands and adjusted my blouse. Then I heard the drill. It whirred and buzzed but didn’t sound like Tom Cruise roaring his F-14 Tomcat onto an aircraft carrier like the drills of my youth. I felt not a millisecond of pain.  The circulation started to return to my hands when he said, “We’re almost finished but now I am going to polish your new filling.” 

“That’s not necessary,” I nervously told him, “as no one but you and I and your assistant  here will ever see it. It won’t be a reflection on your work and it can be our dirty little secret.”  

He told me that it was important for durability and to make sure my bite was right. I sighed. I looked over at his assistant and she squeezed my hand and asked, “Are you doing okay?” I don’t think that she really wanted an honest answer so I nodded my head.

He started the polisher and I wondered if he’d dug up that jet engine drill of his early training by mistake. The sound of the polisher thundered more than the drill. It could make anyone’s hair stand on end. It might even deter crime.

A short time later and just when I thought he was wrapping things up, he said, “There’s one more piece that I need to get.” I watched him pull out something that looked like a glue gun and dab that around and the dental hygienist who had been quietly assisting, smiled at me. I gulped hard.

Finally I heard him say, “We’re finished.”

I did my part, opening wide for him while he jammed that dam in place (I mean, he gently maneuvered it into position), possibly so wide that I showed my tonsils. I hope it helped, but I had to admit: he helped me. He got me through the procedure pain-free while tamping down the phobia. I was impressed and grateful. He could have asked me to clean the office afterwards and I would have complied. 

“Thank you. I hoped that I wasn’t too ‘bad’ of a patient.”

He answered me, “You did great and were an ‘8’ patient.”  

I thought that was fair and I left the office drooling a little from the extra Lidocaine but bursting with pride! 

Dental phobias can be crippling and cause people to avoid the dentist, but they can be overcome with patience and perhaps a hint of humor. I won’t hesitate (too much) now to return if I need any additional work. 

The next day I attended a lecture on medical antiques. The lecturer had a collection of tools, including a 19th century dental kit. I took one look at the tool that looked like a set of huge metal pliers and I felt eternally grateful to be living in the 21st century.