- Your Voice
I had a dental cleaning appointment this morning. I considered calling in sick and putting the torture off until next week but in the end I worked up my courage and went in as scheduled. I have dental anxiety stemming from several bad root canal experiences. Every time I find myself lying supine in that chair my heart rate increases. And then the hygienist comes in and seems to mock me in the way she suits up. First she strings that mask across her face—I presume to hide the snide smile that will creep across her lips as she slowly tortures me. And then—one by one—she pulls the latex gloves on and lets them snap to spite me. I stiffen in response. The worst part is when she emerges with her tray full of sharp and shiny death tools. Oh sure, they look harmless enough beneath that flimsy sterilization sheet. But in the right hands, even that insignificant little string of floss can be wielded like a miniature machete and slice right through the tender, fleshy gum right there between my two front teeth. Believe me, I know.