Columnist Susan Snyder: Reaching out to the dentally ill

Tuesday, May 31, 2005 | 8:19 a.m.

My dentist is a skilled, detail-driven, very good person.

It's almost too bad he's a dentist.

Back slowly away from the computer. I am only kidding.

It is absolutely not his fault that I am the kind of dental patient whose panic attacks begin on the drive to the appointment.

It is the fault of someone long ago, in a dental office far, far away. But like the worst relationship baggage on the planet, we unconsciously hold responsible dentists present for the transgressions of dentists past.

Still, it would be a whole lot easier on all of us if the tools of the trade sounded more like birdies singing and less like Home Depot.

You can numb the whole upper half of someone's body, and he will still recoil from the sound of a power tool vibrating inside his cranium. A grinding wheel smaller than the tip of a ballpoint pen sounds like a chain saw when inside one's mouth.

My dentist and his ever-patient assistant injected my mouth with enough drugs to numb a moose, reminded me to take slow, deep breaths through my nose and handed me a Kleenex to keep my hands busy.

I felt absolutely nothing. But a hummingbird takes deeper breaths. And the poor Kleenex didn't stand a chance. I twisted it into rabbit ears, then wound it between my knuckles until they turned white.

Make that, more white.

"Have you ever tried nitrous oxide?" the assistant asked casually between grindings.

Laughing gas? Sure. Bring it on -- then hit me over the head with a hammer.

My fear of dentistry is a sad affliction but evidently is shared by a number of colleagues. Most agreed that some procedures are best when they are over and major forms of narcotics are involved.

One of my cohorts, whose name is being withheld because he's bigger than I am, recounted how workers in his dentist's office had to break down the bathroom door before they could extract his wisdom teeth.

Why?

Valium.

They administered it to calm his nerves. He was calm, all right. Went into the bathroom to wash his hands and fell sound asleep.

Another colleague, whose name is being withheld because the other guy's was, recalled -- vaguely -- the aftermath of a root canal involving a prescription painkiller and an unknown quantity of self-medicating Crown Royal. The root canal was a breeze compared to the hangover.

When my wisdom teeth were yanked (yep, that's what happened), they put me under something called "twilight sleep." It's more than Novocain, less than anesthesia and makes one blissfully unaware of reality.

As the drugs slowly wore off, the dental assistant offered me a pad of paper and a pen, in case I wanted to ask questions.

There was one.

"Did I marry Kevin Costner?" I scrawled.

No such luck. But it would have been more interesting than a free toothbrush. Suffice to say, I am not looking forward to the root canal that precedes the affixing of a new crown.

A crown should come with a coronation. But I'll settle for a Valium.

My poor dentist, however, might need two.