The Not-So-Gentle Art of Dentistry

There are few things about which there is universal agreement. On almost every topic, you are likely to get as many opinions as the number of people you ask. But ask anyone about going to the dentist and you are pretty much guaranteed to get a unanimous answer. No one likes to go to the dentist. My recent visit to the dentist was no exception.

Believe me, I have nothing against dentists personally, but the experience can definitely do with improvements. The whole thing is designed to be unpleasant from beginning to end. First of all, there are intimidating pictures of gum disease, crooked teeth and such to greet you. Then there are alarming brochures describing the consequences of not having your teeth cleaned every six months. I put these away in a hurry but not before realizing that I have not been here in more than a year. Visions of bloody pits, where teeth used to be, well up in my mind.

Since it has been so long since my last visit, the assistant tells me that I need a full set of x-rays. She makes me bite pieces of hard plastic which dig into my mouth making it all sore. It does not make me comfortable that she darts into the adjoining room every time she takes the pictures as if recoiling from a frying chamber.

Then she adjusts the seat so that I am suspended at an unnatural angle with blood rushing to my head. Actually, I think this is done so that your mouth will bleed easily when poked even slightly.

The stage is now set. I have a bright light shining on my face and I am surrounded by masked people holding sharp instruments. The dentist looks into my mouth and, after a couple of ah’s and oh’s, shows me close-ups of my teeth and gums in a mirror. Now, I don’t know about you, but most people tend to look bad under bright lights even with their mouths closed. With my mouth open under the glare of these, I look positively hideous. Some dentists try to make you feel comfortable with some small talk during this humiliating process. Others exchange notes with the assistant as if you are not in the room. Of course, you cannot say a word, as your mouth is held open while the dentist pokes your gums with the little hook-shaped instrument, drawing blood with every poke, which you can neither swallow nor spit.

This time, I am told, I needed to get my pockets cleaned. You know, I think this is what gets dentists a bad name. All other things – the bright light, the seat, sharp instrument, the screeching drill, etc. – can be considered necessary evils, but cleaning my pockets? I mean, really! Can't they come up with a better phrase? Can you imagine the following conversation?

A: Hey, where have you been?

B: I was at the dentist’s.

A: Oh, what did you have done?

B: I had my pockets cleaned.

A: Yeah, I know the feeling. I had a crown put in that set me back a cool thousand bucks. But seriously, what procedure did you have done?

Enough said.

Morning's At Seven

I wonder if you have ever read the poem, Pippa's Song by Browning?

The year 's at the spring,
And day 's at the morn;
Morning 's at seven;
The hill-side 's dew-pearl'd;
The lark 's on the wing;
The snail 's on the thorn;
God 's in His heaven—
All 's right with the world!

Well, I must say that Pippa had it really great. From the day I started school, my mornings have tended to be somewhat busier than Pippa's typical spring day. Seven in the morning is crazy for most of us. 

It is interesting that Pippa sings about Spring because it is particularly hard in Spring when the daylight savings time kicks in. They call it "Spring Forward" to indicate setting the clock ahead by an hour. To me, it is more like "Crawl Forward". Our bodies are adept at staying in tune with the environment. Daybreak and sundown are markers that the bodies rely on to stay in harmony. But they cannot adjust to an arbitrary change in a mechanical device that keeps time.

Daylight Savings Time is supposed to save energy. I don't know how much energy this actually saves, but trying to adjust to the change in the clock is sapping mine. 

The clock rules us in the morning. This slavery to time is inculcated early in life starting with school. The schools were the worst because you risked punishment for being late. I used to walk to school or run if I was (quite appropriately) running late. 

When I used to work in Mumbai, things were hectic and my mornings were so precisely timed to catch the right bus and train to make it to the office on time. If I missed the 7:25 shuttle to the station to catch the 7:43 fast train, then I ended up having to take an auto-rickshaw or taxi. If you so much as stopped to look at the snail on the thorn (seriously? the thorn?), you risked missing the connections which were set up like dominoes.

Mercifully, the Mumbai period passed and now I am not dependent on public transport to go to work. Even if I tried to use it, it would be so tortuous, with many connections and take a couple of hours, but that's another story. On a good day, meaning the traffic behaving, I can reach my office in about twenty minutes. Though it is not quite the same as Pippa's morning, I really cannot complain. Perhaps, when I retire, I can emulate Pippa. But for now, 

Morning's at seven
My face needs shavin'