As a kid, my diet consisted primarily of things that came in colorful wrappers. Vegetables were viewed with suspicion, while candy, soda, and junk food were considered major food groups.

Not surprisingly, trips to the dentist rarely ended with a congratulatory handshake. Every appointment seemed to involve cavities, pulling teeth, or both. If I wasn't getting a lecture about brushing, I was being informed that some part of my mouth needed immediate attention. After a few years of that routine, I began to view dental appointments the same way medieval villagers viewed incoming dragons.

While my eating habits have improved considerably since those days, some of those childhood dental anxieties have stubbornly followed me into adulthood. That's one of the reasons I appreciate the professional team at Kalil Dental here in town. I visited them recently for my routine cleaning, and they were once again great.

Of course, my mind wandered to my childhood dentist phobias…

First, there’s the waiting room. It’s eerily quiet except for the slow, ominous ticking of a wall clock that seems to be counting down to my impending doom.

Then, I get called to the chair. 127 adjustments, only two of them somewhat conforming to my torso. Once detained, it transforms into a confessional booth, but instead of confessing my sins, I confess to not flossing frequently. My hygienist nods in that “I know” way, as she senses my shame.

Attired in a blast-resistant suit, face shield, gloves, and double mask, she looks like she’s handling uranium. I look like I’m waiting for a haircut. The imbalance is unsettling, like I missed a critical safety briefing.

On to the cleaning. My hygienist wields that tiny metal hook like a fencing champion, scraping away like a seasoned quarry worker. “You’re bleeding a little,” she says casually. Funny how excavating for a lost civilization in my mouth will do that, I think to myself.

Then, the Waterpik. If you've never experienced this high-powered jet stream to the gums, let me tell you, it’s basically Splash Mountain, but without the fun and nostalgia. One second, I’m lounging like a civilized human; the next I’m getting blasted on the log flume like a toddler in a bib. And I never time the flash right, so once again I look ridiculous in the souvenir photo they handed me at checkout.

Suddenly, the PA system comes on (or perhaps it's just in my head) with the announcement: "You're due for X-rays today. Due? As if this is some exciting rewards program I've been eagerly anticipating. Before I can scratch my nose, I’m encased in a lead blanket. Handed down from ancient times, this is no lightweight apron. This thing weighs approximately the same as a Mini Cooper. They drape it over my chest, and suddenly I'm experiencing what life would be like with half the breathing capacity. "Just bite down on this," they say. The "this" in question is a plastic device apparently designed by someone who holds a personal grudge against human gums. I clamp down and immediately feel like this is the wrong look for a photo shoot.

Then my hygienist retreats behind a protective wall, peeks around the corner, and activates the machine. Now, I'm no scientist, but when the person operating the equipment feels the need to hide behind a barrier while I'm sitting in the direct line of fire, it does little to boost my confidence. “Perfect. Just one more," she says. One more? At this point, I'm already convinced they possess enough data to reconstruct a full-scale 3D model of my head and display it at the town library. 

Thankfully, the apron eventually comes off, circulation returns to my upper body, and I escape captivity.

And don’t get me started on the drill. The moment it turns on, my soul temporarily leaves my body. That high-pitched whine? That’s the sound of my ancestors warning me to flee.

The Final Exam. Like a forensic expert entering a crime scene, the doc breezes in for a quick peek. “Some demineralization on the occlusal surface… caries on the distal of #14,” she casually announces. Yup, just as I feared… the end is near.

Finally, it’s over. They gift me a toothbrush for minimizing outbursts, and I stagger out, vowing to floss regularly (yet again).

See you in six months, team. You continue to do an admirable job calming my irrational fears!

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