Tales From the Death-Pits of Rath
There’s nothing like going to the dentist to make you feel like a very young child. It’s an unavoidable part of the experience, the very nature of the beast. They lean you back in that chair so your entire body is exposed while they do whatever they feel like. When they hurt you - as they always do - you can’t move or make any noise at all, because if you do then it will only hurt worse. It strips you of any power you have over your own body, and when it’s done you have to walk home carrying a plastic bag full of “fun-size!” toothbrushes.
I went in three weeks ago to schedule an appointment, thinking it would take no more than fifteen minutes tops. Instead I found myself filling out page after page of increasingly nonsensical medical forms, largely dealing with me agreeing that the university was not responsible for any accidents that may result from giving inexperienced students picks and letting them loose in my mouth. I was … hesitant. My father (cheap, lying bastard that he is) had talked me into getting my teeth cleaned before the summer because it’s only seven dollars. I wondered aloud at the time if this was because I would be having me teeth cleaned by twitchy nineteen-year-olds, and he told me not to worry.
“Western doesn’t even have a dentistry program!” he said.
Well, guess what.
After filling out the paperwork I was told that I needed a “pre-appointment” before they’d actually clean my teeth. So I followed a girl in scrubs into a back room which was full of about twenty chairs, each occupied by a miserable-looking student who didn’t know what they were getting into. They were all stuffed into this tiny room, with no privacy or personal space at all. The girl then took my blood pressure and temperature and just looked at my teeth before saying I was all good. They told me to bring in my asthma medicine and my wallet when I came back.
Flash forward to today. I’m immediately escorted back after coughing up my money, and once more do they take my blood pressure and temperature. Why? I don’t know. No other dentist has ever had to do that in my life. The student and I then sit around for a good half hour until her professor comes in and gives her permission to start. She picks up her pointed instruments and … oh god, I can’t write about it detail. Suffice it say that she had a very heavy hand, and that she eventually had to leave that sucking hose thing in my mouth to clean up all the blood. She also had to stop frequently and wait for her professor, who greatly desires to micromanage every part of this incredibly, impossibly painful process.
It all started at 12:00. I had to leave my Spanish class early to get there on time. And do you know when I got out? Do you? Three and a half hours later. At 3:30! I had my wisdom teeth removed in less time! Jesus suffered on the cross for less time! To top it all off, I had to skip lunch, and wasn’t allowed to eat anything for two hours afterwards.
After it was all done I had to sit there in agony and listen while both the student and her instructor lectured me on the importance of brushing and flossing regularly, despite the fact that I already floss and brush two times a day with two different kinds of toothpaste. I was made to wait further while they spread some pink liquid on my clean teeth to show me all the places where I had missed brushing, and of course it refuses to come off now.
All of this has done nothing but feed the robust inferiority complex I’ve been developing. I can’t handle four classes when everyone else is taking five, I can’t muster up the social skills to wave to old high school acquaintances when everyone else is glutted with friends, I can’t function on nine hours of sleep when everyone else is running around on three and a half, and now I can’t even brush my teeth right.
I really feel trapped in the Red Queen’s Race. You know, from Alice in Wonderland: “You have to run as fast as you can just to stay in the same place.” Except I started the race a mile behind everyone else to begin with; I’m working myself to the bone to keep myself from sliding even farther back. I can never, ever rest; I must work tirelessly for no actual benefit whatsoever. And the worst, worst, worst part is that no one else even seems to be making the slightest effort at all to stay ahead of me. They can all float happily on life’s ocean and enjoy the waves, but I have to swim and each wave may be enough to drown me … If you’ll forgive me for mixing metaphors.
I went in three weeks ago to schedule an appointment, thinking it would take no more than fifteen minutes tops. Instead I found myself filling out page after page of increasingly nonsensical medical forms, largely dealing with me agreeing that the university was not responsible for any accidents that may result from giving inexperienced students picks and letting them loose in my mouth. I was … hesitant. My father (cheap, lying bastard that he is) had talked me into getting my teeth cleaned before the summer because it’s only seven dollars. I wondered aloud at the time if this was because I would be having me teeth cleaned by twitchy nineteen-year-olds, and he told me not to worry.
“Western doesn’t even have a dentistry program!” he said.
Well, guess what.
After filling out the paperwork I was told that I needed a “pre-appointment” before they’d actually clean my teeth. So I followed a girl in scrubs into a back room which was full of about twenty chairs, each occupied by a miserable-looking student who didn’t know what they were getting into. They were all stuffed into this tiny room, with no privacy or personal space at all. The girl then took my blood pressure and temperature and just looked at my teeth before saying I was all good. They told me to bring in my asthma medicine and my wallet when I came back.
Flash forward to today. I’m immediately escorted back after coughing up my money, and once more do they take my blood pressure and temperature. Why? I don’t know. No other dentist has ever had to do that in my life. The student and I then sit around for a good half hour until her professor comes in and gives her permission to start. She picks up her pointed instruments and … oh god, I can’t write about it detail. Suffice it say that she had a very heavy hand, and that she eventually had to leave that sucking hose thing in my mouth to clean up all the blood. She also had to stop frequently and wait for her professor, who greatly desires to micromanage every part of this incredibly, impossibly painful process.
It all started at 12:00. I had to leave my Spanish class early to get there on time. And do you know when I got out? Do you? Three and a half hours later. At 3:30! I had my wisdom teeth removed in less time! Jesus suffered on the cross for less time! To top it all off, I had to skip lunch, and wasn’t allowed to eat anything for two hours afterwards.
After it was all done I had to sit there in agony and listen while both the student and her instructor lectured me on the importance of brushing and flossing regularly, despite the fact that I already floss and brush two times a day with two different kinds of toothpaste. I was made to wait further while they spread some pink liquid on my clean teeth to show me all the places where I had missed brushing, and of course it refuses to come off now.
All of this has done nothing but feed the robust inferiority complex I’ve been developing. I can’t handle four classes when everyone else is taking five, I can’t muster up the social skills to wave to old high school acquaintances when everyone else is glutted with friends, I can’t function on nine hours of sleep when everyone else is running around on three and a half, and now I can’t even brush my teeth right.
I really feel trapped in the Red Queen’s Race. You know, from Alice in Wonderland: “You have to run as fast as you can just to stay in the same place.” Except I started the race a mile behind everyone else to begin with; I’m working myself to the bone to keep myself from sliding even farther back. I can never, ever rest; I must work tirelessly for no actual benefit whatsoever. And the worst, worst, worst part is that no one else even seems to be making the slightest effort at all to stay ahead of me. They can all float happily on life’s ocean and enjoy the waves, but I have to swim and each wave may be enough to drown me … If you’ll forgive me for mixing metaphors.