Manifest Dentistry II

“Mr Lamb, please.”

Fuck. Fuck shit fuck. Fuck shit wank fuck.

I stand up and hand the freshly completed forms over to one of the two overweight blonde receptionists (coincidence or dentist’s fetish?). I was really hoping the forms would take longer to fill out than this, thereby delaying that opening line a little longer. I mean, don’t you want to know more about me? I’ll tell you everything, just give me more forms to fill out. Please.

The receptionist takes the forms from me with a chubby hand and a bored expression and flicks her eyes toward the stairs which, refreshingly, lead up into hell. I climb the stairs as slowly as I can but there aren’t that many and the sense of the inevitable has overcome me. May as well just get it over with. I’m aided in my resignation by the fact that I have been in a deep depression since yesterday and therefore much more able to detach myself from any emotional encumbrance that has followed me here. You know, like nerves, fear, panic, blind terror. All are greatly diminished by the fact that I’m in the hole and feeling pretty much nothing.

There are times when depression is an asset. Yay for depression. Sort of.

At the top of the stairs I’m greeted by a gentleman, standing in the doorway of a room and dressed entirely in green. He looks like some sports team mascot missing only the giant frog’s head. He offers me a predatory smile and then steps aside to let me into the room. I get my first glimpse of the chair. The chair! Satan’s own recliner! My legs feel weaker suddenly and my tummy feels all squirty. Damn depression isn’t doing the job here.

I do my best to return the smile but Lord only knows what feeble approximation the man in green actually sees. Something akin to the expression of a zebra trying to charm a pack of hungry hyenas. He gestures to The Chair and bids me be seated. I slump down into it like a man who has all but expended his resistance. For such a man am I. There’s nowhere left to go. This is it. Resign yourself, my son.

And so it begins. Just as I predicted it would be. Rubber covered fingers and cold metal poking around my mouth while some smothered droning voice calls out strange numbers and says ‘hmm’ a lot. I close my eyes and think of movie scenes. I think of the book I’m writing with Margaret and I try to crush her hand psychically (glad that worked). I think of Jen chanting ‘OM’. I think of Joe being a wise-ass. I repeat my mantra ‘get me the fuck outta here, get me the fuck outta here’. But nothing can distract me from the fact that all this shit in my mouth is making me want to puke.

Finally, thankfully, it’s done. I lay there staring at the light hovering over me, wishing it were some beautiful archangel come to take me away, but it’s not. There are no archangels for me today, just the thought of two possible root canals and a shitload of treatment for my gums. Oh yes, this is just the beginning. Satan’s own recliner is not done with me yet. The Chair will be taking me into its embrace again real soon.

Strangely, the depression doesn’t abate.