True Confession - I Am Terrified Of The "D Word"

Please do not say the “d word” around me. I cannot even type the “d word” because I shutter with fear and trepidation at those seven conjoined letters and what they represent. For a large percentage of my youth whenever the “d word” was mentioned, I grew sick to my stomach, crawled into the depths of my closet and resided there for several days praying my parents would grow irresponsible and forget about me. Unfortunately, because they were responsible adults regarding my teeth, the Republicans, they would eventually find me and drag me kicking and screaming to the “d word.” These same responsible parents also allowed me to watch the Dustin Hoffman movie “Marathon Man.” If you have seen that movie, you know of what I speak. Did they really expect to raise a normal daughter?

A “d word” visit is the worst possible type of torture invented unto man. Flatten my breast for a mammogram or insert a cold steel spectrum any day of the week but please, do not place me in a chair, turn me upside and force me to unhinge my jaw bones to scrape my teeth with tiny sharp stainless steel tools or worse yet, drill holes in my teeth with a Black and Decker mini drill.

Dr. Q was my “d word” many years ago. He now lives in “d word” hell where there is much gnashing of teeth. I am sure he is happy. He was known through Southwest Virginia and Northeast Tennessee as an evil man who took great pleasure in administering pain to good people. Anyone who was unfortunate enough to visit his medieval chambers was purposely greeted with a sly grin and laugh, strapped to a reclining chair, draped with a chain and drool cloth, strategically placed under a drill arm within easy site of the tool tray, then left to wait thirty minutes to anticipate all the fun only to endure being straddled by a 6’ 7” giant who strained his neck muscles by seeing how much pressure he could apply (all said without taking a breath).

I still have nightmares about going to the “d word.” Seriously! At least once a month since I was a child I wake up in a cold sweat having dreamed my teeth are loose and falling out and have to make a trip to the “d word.” Even in my dreams I am reassuring myself it is just a dream and for love of all that is holy, “Wake Up!” All this has caused me to become obsessive compulsive regarding my teeth. Truly, I brush my teeth at least four times per day, sometimes five just for reassurance. I carry a toothbrush, toothpaste and dental floss everywhere I go. I take the mantra “brush and floss after every meal” literally. People stop me in public and ask me about my teeth so they can see the panic on my face just for grins.

What does all this mean to my children? Well first, they hear the phrase “brush your teeth” about ten times per day. Sometimes, when I cannot think of anything else to say, I say “brush your teeth” just in case. Despite my affliction, I have managed to get my kids to the “d word” on a regular basis. I searched the world over until I found a sweet Mr. Rogers type “d word”. One who speaks softly, has soft hands and keeps his tools hidden until the last minute so as not to ignite fear into the hearts of my sons. Moreover, do you know my nasty, rotten children have never had one cavity. Not one! They have never gone under the drill! How unfair is that?

I am convinced that Dr. Q faked my cavities for kicks and money. My much older brother says the same thing so that makes it a fact. We have had many in depth conversations about this area of our childhood and credit Dr. Q with most of our psychotic spells. Oh, I know what you are thinking. Find a “d word” that puts you to sleep while doing procedures. Hear me laughing hysterically and saying, “I DON’T THINK SO!" I have seen that Seinfeld episode thank you very much.

Thanks for reading, Rosie.