I can think of no place where one is so inaccessible as the dentist's chair. I had this thought recently while sitting in the dentist's chair, listening to my cell phone ring. Not only was I flat on my back, not only was I pinned down by a tray of sharp and shiny instruments, not only was my mouth full of gauze, the dentist's hands, and some awful plastic contraption designed to keep me from closing my lips. If all this had not not enough to keep me from answering the phone, I'm not sure that the person calling would have understood me, anyway, since the right side of my mouth was completely numb. The numbness, one could say, was my own doing. The dentist had asked right away if I wanted painkillers before she drilled my tooth. That seemed like a ridiculous question, and I suppose the alacrity with which I answered was what prompted her to ask -- several times during the hour I sat in her chair -- if I would like some more painkillers.
In French, "dentist" is one of those easy words that's the same as the English version, only with a French accent: "dahn-TEEST." The title actually makes more sense in French, since your teeth are "dents." It would be like calling American dentists "toothists" or something. When you make an appointment, it is for "Un rendez-vous chez dentiste," which, even after more than a year here, still sounds a little shady to me. I remember explaining to my French teacher that in America, a rendez-vous generally involves either spies or an illicit tryst, so I wasn't sure that I felt comfortable setting up a rendez-vous between the orthodontist and my teenaged daughter. She, however, assured me it was all perfectly above-board.
Trapped in the dentist's chair, trying to distract oneself from the sound of drilling going on in one's own mouth, one has time and motivation for all sorts of thoughts. My first was, "Why on earth would anyone want to be a dentist?" To me, mouths are repulsive and not very interesting. I suppose maybe there is an artistic element to dentistry, and I know the pay is good, but is that enough to cause someone to put up with people drooling on their hands all day? My second thought, however, was to be thankful that not everyone shares my aversion to mouths. In particular, I was thankful for the dentiste now taking care of my mouth and letting me drool on her.
I haven't had a cavity since before I went to college, and I wouldn't have been sitting in the chair having this one drilled if I hadn't mentioned to the hygienist, the week previous, that my very back right tooth hurt when I clenched my teeth. I had debated not saying anything. After all, it didn't hurt much . . . and only when I bit down really hard . . . and maybe it would just disappear on its own. . . . Truly, however, I knew there was something unpleasant back there that wasn't going away. Both the hygienist and the dentist commented that they never would have known from the outside of the tooth that anything was wrong. It was only my discomfort and the x-ray that showed them the nasty truth. I spent several moments, my mouth open unnaturally wide and the painkillers not completely killing all sensation, wishing that I hadn't said anything. I wondered what would have happened. Would the cavity have remained only a small, invisible discomfort, or would it have grown so it was eventually visible -- and truly painful? Would it have spread to other teeth? Would I have needed something more major than an hour of dental labor? And I know this isn't an original thought (give me a break, my jaw was dislocating), but the whole thing reminded me of sin. How we try to pretend it isn't there, how that doesn't actually make it go away, how sometimes getting rid of some particular pet sin feels like having your teeth drilled and makes you wish maybe you'd just let it rot for a while longer. But how, really, dealing with the problem head on -- with the drill of repentance, if you will -- is the only way to stop it from doing more damage. God as the master dentist . . . not the best analogy ever, I know.
I left the dentist's office feeling no regret that that particular hour of my life would never come again. My happiness was tempered, however, by the fact that I still couldn't feel half of my mouth. Also, my cheek felt enormous and I was sure that I was drooling. I took a quick peek in a mirror on the bus and was shocked to find that I looked completely normal. I'm sure there's a life lesson here as well, but right now, I can't put my finger on it. Maybe I should just be thankful that, in this case anyway, neither the aftermath of my cavity nor my sins were on display to everyone I passed.
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