For info on the Shy Man's Guide to Success with Women (or any of Terry Heggy's other writing), please visit www.shyperson.com.

Yesterday, I made an appointment to return to the dentist to get a new filling. Or at least that's what I think I agreed to. The dentist actually said something more along the lines of "we need to do a minor restoration on the amalgam in number 29, with a medial lateral occlusion watch on the bicuspid hyperspacial transmogrification clavin...", or something like that.

I don't know what the hell they were talking about. Nothing in my mouth hurts at this point, so what's up? They told me I've been doing a good job with the brushing and the flossing and the cavity-fighting, and all that. But nonetheless, they scheduled me to come back in a month to have this "work" done. Well...OK. I guess.

Actually, I trust this dentist. He's a good guy, and his staff is very friendly and professional. And from past experience with him, I'd expect this appointment to be quick, efficient, and relatively painless. It's just that I'm not really fond of construction projects taking place inside my mouth.

I swear I'm not an anti-dentite, but... there have been times over the years when I've had murderous thoughts about members of this noble profession. The first dentist I can remember was probably a really swell guy, but I hated him. Getting my brother and sister and I loaded into the car for a trip to Dr. Rush's office was probably like, well, it was like pulling teeth. Oh, sure, this guy's waiting room had all the amenities -- a pile of building blocks for kids to play with, tattered copy of Green Eggs and Ham, and stacks of those delightful Hi-Lights magazines.

Remember Hi-Lights? My favorite section of the magazine was the Hidden Picture challenge, where they'd create a dorky drawing of a mutant boy riding a bicycle, and then sneakily place other objects around the picture as if they were part of the scenery. For example, one of the boy's shoelaces might form the shape of a fish hook, and a potted plant may contain a leaf hiding the Graf Zeppelin. There was sure to be a comb lying among the herringbone wallpaper pattern, and a Buck Rogers-style pointy-nose rocket ship lurking among the bicycle's spokes. It was always fun... unless some thoughtless bastard had used a pen to circle all the hidden objects. (Invariably, these morons would also circle a part of the drawing that contained NO hidden objects, but what do you expect...they're morons. I always hoped that people who drew in public access magazines would be punished by receiving gratuitous fillings -- sans novocain.)

This dentist's office had that smell that was probably partly from nightly hosings of antiseptic cleanser, and partly from vinyl furniture outgassing caused by overexposure to UV rays. But to me, it always smelled like cremation. When those 40-billion-RPM drills started whining, they just HAD to be generating enough heat and friction to vaporize teeth, jawbones, and any other nearby part of the poor victim's head. I mean, how do we know they weren't grinding away gum tissue -- we were doped to the gills on various concoctions from the dreaded "-caine" family. I figured the only reason the dentist wore a respirator mask over his mouth was so that we wouldn't hear his gleeful "Bwahh haaa haa ha!" as he watched our flesh and bone fragments being pureed into a fine organic mist.

Today's children have no concept of what it was like when we were growing up. My childhood visits to Dr. Rush all happened before the commies succeeded in fluoridating the water supply (for more details, refer to "Dr. Strangelove"). Heck, toothpaste didn't even have fluoride in it back then -- it was more or less just a mixture of ivory soap and marshmallow creme. And those inspiring posters that say "You don't have to floss all your teeth -- only the ones you want to keep" hadn't even made it to the "artists concept" stage yet. Therefore, it was pretty much expected that an annual checkup would result in the discovery of three, four, or even five cavities. My friends and I would keep score, as if the number of cavities you had was somehow a measure of your machismo. By the sixth grade, most of us had enough metal in our mouths to misdirect a compass, and to pick up Wolfman Jack on the occasional stormy night.

Since the world had not yet been through the hippie era, I still had no idea how to judge my tolerance for medications. Today, if there's even a hint that anesthetics are going to be applied, I immediately begin shouting "Small doses! Give me small doses!" I've learned that I'm highly susceptible to numbing agents -- perhaps it's due to the fact that I'm about half-numb to begin with...

Here's my story: It happened when I was about ten or eleven years old. For some reason, our parents had scheduled a family movie outing immediately after my dental appointment. Back in those days, family movie outings were rare indeed; mostly consisting of grabbing pillows, putting on our PJs and going to the Wonder-Vu Drive-In for a Dick Van Dyke double-feature. Perhaps our parents enjoyed the full shows, but we kids spent most of the time snoozing in the back seat, waking up only during the breaks so we could joyfully sing along with "Let's all go to the lobby...".

Anyway, as soon as I was released from the dentist's chair, we were actually going to the indoor theatre; the fabulous Orpheum (indoor and air conditioned!). They were showing the latest Jerry Lewis masterpiece, "Which Way to the Front?". My dad informed Dr. Rush of our timetable; and I guess the dentist figured that the faster he numbed me, the quicker the whole procedure could go. He swabbed my mouth with the jumbo mint-flavored Q-tip, then said "You're going to feel a little stick -- here -- and here -- and here -- and what the heck, let's do it here, here, here, and here, too."

I've never seen such operation-oriented enthusiasm. He was in there pounding and yanking and poking like he thought he was going to find Blackbeard's treasure buried deep in my jawbone. Eeeeeee-yeeee-EEEEEEE went the drill, and I could smell my tissues being vaporized. And despite the massive amount of narcotics coursing through my system, it HURT. But before too long, they'd poured the molten metal into the newly drilled holes and then hammered it into the desired shape. Stuffing my head full of a couple dozen cotton balls, they cheerfully told me to try hard to not swallow too much blood while I was at the movie theatre.

Then, as usual, we played out the end-of-appointment ritual -- the dental assistant brought out a little treasure-chest shaped box and allowed me to pick out a trinket, for being "such a good boy". I don't know why that was such a highlight for me, but I must confess that I always loved picking out my reward. They weren't anything special...just little erasers and cheap bracelet charms and microscopic plastic cars -- all too crappy to even be considered for Cracker Jack prizes...but I certainly cherished that moment when the treasure box opened up just for me.

Still, as I left the office, my face felt like a bundt cake, all swollen and misshapen. (Of course, it probably looked normal to everyone else, but the novocain made it feel like I was puffed up to at least three times the normal size.) I couldn't talk, and drooled continuously. But the worst part came at the movie theatre. Possibly due to the ignorance of youth, possibly due to the quarts of medications within my system, I was fabulously entertained by the Jerry Lewis movie. Though watching the same movie today elicits excruciating agony, at the time I thought it was uproariously funny.

Well, YOU try laughing out loud when your entire head is a numb as a mattress pad. It was horrible. Instead of hearty human laughter, I made Quasimodo-like noises and inadvertently flung spittle in every direction. And to top it off, for some reason, my eyes started watering profusely. So here I was, blinded, incapable of coherent speech, covered in drool, and feeling convinced that I would never again taste anything that didn't hint of cotton balls.

What should have been a joyous family outing became an exercise in misery and shame. I've never gotten over it. And to make matters worse, the numbness didn't wear off until about halfway through school the next day. My cheeks were punctured in multiple locations, since I hadn't been able to feel anything for so long. And I was embarrassed to speak in class, lest I blind the teacher with all the shiny new reflective metal gleaming inside my mouth.

Anyway, I hope my current dentist will understand, and not take it personally when I walk in to my appointment with a huge sign taped to my chest: "Small doses, please!"

Wish me luck, my friends,
Terry

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PS. I guess I should include short comments about the one reasonably pleasant dental experiences I've had. It was when I had my wisdom teeth removed. I only had three of them for some reason -- probably a mutational side effect of commie water supply tampering -- but they were "impacted", which means they were buried under gum tissue. This meant major surgery, with the cutting and the bleeding, and screaming, and...

It was the coolest thing. First they injected me with Valium® and Demoral®, and then they stuck a rubber dam in my mouth. This "dam" was a thin latex sheet that actually had holes in it for all my teeth, and completely covered the rest of my mouth. I could still breathe, swallow, and keep my tongue moist during the entire hour and a half procedure. The surgeon just merrily worked away, while I sat in a drug-induced happy-zone, dreamily humming Johnny Cash songs to myself. Though the procedure involved actually smashing the offending teeth into tiny bits, and then somehow sucking up the shards, I was only peripherally aware of either the excavation or the vacuuming. I don't know if they used a hammer, or if they used miniature sticks of dynamite, but I do remember that the surgeon looked totally exhausted at the end of the operation. But I was still on a giant buzz. He asked how I felt; I was later told that I said "I tell ya, life ain't easy for a boy named Sue."

On the way home, we needed to pick up some milk, so we stopped by the grocery store. My wife turned her back for a moment, and then spent the next several minutes trying to figure out where her husband and grocery cart had disappeared to. They found me with my face in the ice cream freezer singing something about a "burning ring of fire". Though she eventually got me home safely, I understand that I didn't make a coherent remark for at least the next two days. And while I must say that the effects of the Valium and Demoral were far more pleasant than those of the novocain, I still think the experience adds evidence to the fact that I'll still need my "small doses" sign when I go in for my filling, don't you think? :) T.