To The Cavity I Refuse to Acknowledge

Dear Cavity that I choose to ignore,

I know you’re back there. You’re like my silent partner, always by my side but rarely making itself known. 

You appear in the form of a small, sharp pain – usually when met with something cold like water, or ice cream. I chew crackers on the other side of my mouth just to avoid you.

I often shove things in your general vicinity, hoping they'll fill your gaping need for attention. I’ve tried gum, taffy, even popcorn kernels, to no avail.

When I floss, I pretend you’re just a small piece of cracked black pepper because to be honest would be unthinkable. I can't imagine going to the dentist.

The dentist. Two words that make my insides squirm with terror. Images of sharp metallic objects flood my mind, and a masked face with cold, steely eyes staring down at me.

Then there’s that sound. Oh God, the sound. It’s the sound of the tiny little chainsaw that they refer to as a Dentist Drill.


Plaque and shrapnel fly through the air as I sit, all muscles tensed, blinking from the fluorescent light that pierces my retina, singular. One eye is closed.

I would close both, but I have to keep tabs on what’s going on just in case the Dentist feels like embracing his sadistic nature in all its glory.

More often than not, my hyper-awareness does nothing to stop the “Deep Cleaning” that is surely coming my way, because there always has to be more work for The Dentist.

He promises sweet relief as he pulls out his Needle of Death containing Novocaine and plunges it into the roof of my mouth. I could swear the needle pierces through half my nose, but the numbing sensation kicks in before I can gather any hard evidence.

Despite the tingling, I can still feel the pressure as he digs in my mouth as if he’s unearthing an ancient tomb. I'm so glad I can’t tell exactly what kind of liquid is sloshing around, threatening to spill over.

 I can’t see his mouth, but I could swear he’s smiling under there at the sight of my torture. I glare back at him as I wonder if would-be serial killers sometimes grow up to be Dentists.

After he gets his jollies using all of his favorite toys, he finally gets around to looking at you, you little son of a b*tch. He sticks his rubbery finger all the way back to feel you, touching a little more than is necessary. If I haven’t said it before, I'll say it now: I feel violated.

Then he takes out what I swear is silly putty and puts it at the end of yet another horrifyingly sharp metal stick. You’re filled in about thirty seconds. Are you happy now?

He tells me to “rinse” which really means I get to clean up the crime scene for him by spitting into a tiny little sink (how often do they clean it?). I’m then socially obligated to thank him and smile pretty as I hobble out of the chair and into the blinding light of day.

Next time, I’m putting silly putty back there with a toothpick.