The Tooth Hurts II: Moment of Tooth

Two years ago, I wrote about a lump in my gums, one which left me no choice but to face my fear of the dentist. I never did tell you how that dentist visit shook out. The truth is, I never went. The lump was kind enough to blast chunks all over my bathroom mirror and instantly feel better before I ever got around to getting it looked at, so I just didn’t. And my mouth lived dentist-less-ly ever after.

Or, at least it wanted to. For a year and a half, I was happy to ignore the little discolorations and occasional shocks of sensitivity that might threaten my undental way of life. That all changed the day I discovered a chip in my front tooth.

My first thought, naturally, was this is the single worst thing to ever happen to anyone on earth. On the surface, it doesn’t seem like a huge deal. It’s ​tiny, so small that no one else will ever notice. Hell, I didn’t even notice it for who knows how long. It’s not “hazardous to my health.” But that doesn’t mean it can’t kill me. Every time I look in the mirror, or at a photograph of a happy memory, all I’ll see is someone who looks like they say “hyuck” involuntarily.

Maybe a lump wasn’t enough to drag me to the dentist. But a chipped tooth? Mere months before my wedding day? Also not enough. Too bad for me, though, I’m not the one doing the dragging. My fiancé is who ultimately scheduled the visit. He even took the morning off so I didn’t have to go alone. Thanks, babe.

That week, I set foot in a dentist’s lair for the first time in half a decade. It was suspiciously absent of haunted organ music and furniture made from the teeth of past victims. The receptionist hands me an intake form, which I check to make sure isn’t secretly a DNR.

The hygienists must have been warned about how anxious I’d be, because they led me to the various medical rooms like a frightened woodland creature. First, the X-ray room to determine which teeth I get to keep, then to the exam room to wait, with nothing to occupy my mind but the dim buzz of the fluorescent lighting, the assortment of pointy implements, and the wall-to-wall poster depicting the many rancid oral afflictions that can and will happen to anyone who doesn’t go to the dentist for five years.

The dentist enters with all the gravitas of a nice lady who does not eat teeth. She says hello, reviews my X-rays, reviews my mouth, circles a few spots on my chart—no doubt the prime disaster zones. She leans back, and I brace myself for the inevitable final verdict: “Your teeth look great.”

Uh, what?

I’m silent for a moment, suddenly doubting my grasp of the English language. What about the sensitive spots? What about the chipping? “That’s only happening because you grind your teeth. The tooth itself is perfectly healthy,” she says. “I’m going to have you fitted for a night guard, and that should prevent it from getting any worse.”

There isn’t a word to describe the relief that washed over me. It was like getting hit by a truck, but in a good way. The bad news is there’s no good way to fix a chipped incisor. But it turns out that all I needed was the reassurance that it wouldn’t get worse on its own.

Am I still afraid of the dentist? Yes. But am I still afraid enough to put it off my next visit for another five years? Also yes. See you in 2031, bitches.

Read the original “The Tooth Hurts” from January/February 2024. Or don’t. See if I care.