PETER BUFFA -- Comments & Curiosities

How often do you go? Do you go regularly, or just when you really,

really have to? Maybe you don’t go at all.

To the dentist, that is.

Hate it. Always have, always will. In this life, there are few things

I fear. But of those few, I fear the dentist the most.

FDR was wrong. He should have said, “We have nothing to fear but fear

itself. And the dentist.”

I was there just days ago, in our very own Newport Center. Needless to

say, all the players save myself will remain unnamed.

“Oral surgery.” That’s a euphemism for, “You think we’ve hurt you

before? Watch this.”

But whatever reason puts you in that chair, it’s just not natural.

You’re on your back, mouth open wide. There are two noses and four eyes

hovering just above your own, and four hands sticking metal and plastic

things in your mouth. The little mirror’s not bad. I can deal with the

mirror. Same with the vacuum tube and the spritzer. But that’s it.

Everything else hurts. It’s just a question of how much.

Most dentists are very pleasant and try to make the experience as

painless as possible. I’m sure that works with most people. But it’s lost

on me. On the rare occasions when I do open my eyes, all I see is

Laurence Olivier in “Marathon Man.” I keep waiting for him to lean closer

and whisper, “Is it safe?”

It starts innocently enough. There’s the long Q-Tip with the clove

stuff that’s supposed to make the injection hurt less.

“This is a local anesthetic,” the assistant says. “So you won’t feel

the needle as much.”

Liar.

Then the dentist closes in with the needle, which is probably about

three inches long but looks like a horse syringe to me.

“You might feel a little pinch.”

Also a lie.

Frankly, I wish they would just be honest with you. Just say something

like, “See this needle? I’m going to stick this in your gum, then push

hard on this part. Needless to say, sticking a needle in your gum is

going to hurt like a _____, but when I inject the Novocain, it will be a

life-changing religious experience. Questions?”

That brings us to the “Let’s give that a few minutes to get nice and

numb” part, which has to be one of the loneliest experiences in life.

It’s very much what I imagine being lost at sea or trapped in a mine must

be like. You’re utterly alone, in a strange environment. It’s a deathly

silence, other than the occasional “shuuussssing” sound from the vacuum

tube. You pretend to be interested in the March 1998 copy of People

magazine, but that only makes things worse.

What’s more unnerving are the people who keep walking in and grabbing

something from the counter behind you, unseen, without a word being said.

It’s just pitter patter, rustle, click, pitter patter, gone. Who was it?

What did they want? No one knows. Just as you’re starting to nod off,

they’re back -- clamoring into the room, bubbling and smiling, snapping

on the light, dropping you to the fully vulnerable position.

When the work actually begins, things deteriorate fast when the mouth

in question is mine. In defense of dentists everywhere, they are not the

problem. I am. Well, it’s not me exactly. It’s my tongue. It’s what

dentists call a “strong tongue” -- which, in my case, is a laughable

understatement.

To put it simply, my tongue has a life of its own. The moment anyone

approaches it with a device of any kind, it has very strong opinions.

There’s nothing that Linda Blair’s head did in “The Exorcist” that my

tongue can’t do. It can snatch a dental instrument from someone’s hand

and hurl it across the room like Jim Bowie on a good day. Worse yet, it

loves a challenge. The moment it hears a dentist say, “Please relax your

tongue,” it’s all over. The skirmish between tongue and highly trained

professional is underway. It will escalate quickly, blood will be drawn,

and seven times out of 10, my tongue will emerge victorious -- tossing

aside instruments and drills at will.

Cotton swabs? Please. No matter how hard they pack them in, they will

be launched within seconds. When I was in the military, an Air Force

dentist actually refused to treat me after two appointments. He snapped

off his gloves and said I’d need to see another dentist on my next visit.

I thought he was referring me to a specialist.

“No, Lieutenant,” he said. “It’s your tongue.”

That’s when I first became aware of the problem. Before then, I

thought dentists just didn’t like me. I’ve tried to explain many times

since then that there’s me, then there’s my tongue, but it usually falls

on deaf ears.

Aside from the pain, a nice, long session in the chair is the gift

that keeps on giving. I always look forward to going to meetings the rest

of the day with major bed head and the right half of my lower lip

drooping an inch below the left. Slurring words and sounding like Elmer

Fudd always makes for a good presentation.

“Hawo, alm Peet Moofa. Ice beating you.”

The piece de resistance, is sitting at a business lunch, taking a

drink of your water and having it dribble out the dead side of your

mouth. Very impressive. Clients love that. So go if you have to. I

wouldn’t recommend it, but I guess there’s no way around it.

Don’t be stressed, and for heaven’s sake, don’t be a baby about it. A

little pinch, big deal.

I gotta go.

PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs Fridays. He

can be reached via e-mail at o7 [email protected].

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