I’m in agony, and someone’s going to have a very nice Christmas as a result. Maybe even a European vacation.

Heck, it’s been so long since I’ve been to the dentist the lucky schmuck who draws my chart might be able to retire. Even if she’s 28.

It’s a phobia that defies logic – but, then, don’t most of them? I’ve been through braces, crowns and cavities with only a single bad dental experience. Turns out one is enough.

It was when I was 17 and having impacted wisdom teeth removed. This was back in the dark ages, when they didn’t even consider knocking you out. In fact, this little old battle ax of a dental assistant kept making sure I didn’t pass out.

My eyes would lull as I heard the repeated scrape, scrape, scrape next to my ear drum. It didn’t hurt. The sound nauseated me, though. My head would roll, and the assistant would slap me. Again and again and again. “Wake up!” she’d bark.

From then on, I’ve done everything possible to avoid the dentist. My current toothache has tortured me off and on since April – yes, six months. I had pretty much mastered denial until last night, when the throbbing molar that thumbed its nose at ibuprofen kept waking me. If Dad hadn’t remained stubbornly asleep, I would have found a pair of pliers and had him do the deed right then and there.

Even at that, I put off calling all morning. I have to shampoo the cat. I have too much work this week. There’s no one to keep the kids.

“How about 9 Saturday morning?” the receptionist chirped.

Crap. There went my last excuse.

Is Drilling Under the Influence a crime when the patient is sloshed? There’s a Mexican restaurant near the dentist’s office, and I’m thinking I might have to stop in on my way.

Copyright 2009 Debra Legg. All rights reserved.

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