The legacy my grandfather left me comprised a hefty sum and a lifelong trauma. He must have thought that the best way to bind with his grandson was through the exercise of his profession: dentistry. Every visit to my maternal grandparents would lead to many visits to his office. He would, with great passion and not much care for my own will and feelings, inspect, polish, fix, and work on my teeth.
The weather in the West Indies was hot, making the leather seat uncomfortable. The walls were yellowed with time. The windows were open, letting the noise of life and kids playing outside enter the room. My grandfather would stand over me with his unpleasant awkward smile and use his scary tools over my painfully remaining open mouth. I never understood why such an instrument of torture would be called such a sweet name as “fraise” (strawberry).
My teeth are far from perfect. Slightly skewed. Some are also bent or have moved up in my mouth. Some have a slight pivot to them. When I was seven, too busy considering my “action man” toy, I missed a step, slid down the stairs, and broke my two front teeth. They would regularly need to be fixed for the following five years, only to break again a few months later. Finally, my parents decided it was worth going to a fancy, expensive dentist that would address the issue for the decade to come.
My mouth must have been looking like a theme park to my grandfather. So he would dig in as soon as he had the opportunity. Hurting me on the way. Never asking for my consent. Rarely caring for my feelings, needs, or will. Contributing to building up a deep-anchored fear of dentists. A fear that he had already sown in my mother before me.
To this day, the idea of going to the dentist wakes up a rampant terror in me. I must do it, but somewhere in me, something starts shaking days before I even enter the waiting room.
Yet, one of my key learning in life is that I never feel better or alive than when I pick up a fight with my fears. Thus, although I still need to go there more, I have had not too bad experiences in recent years. I wouldn’t call any of them enjoyable, but some of them were neutral enough that they even put me in a meditative state.
It’s an awkward experience to sit in a dentist’s chair, right?
First, they make you sit down in the very place where they’re gonna operate on you. I never went to a dentist that would make you sit on a desk chair and ask why you’re there like any other doctor would do. No, you sit immediately on the field where the action takes place. Plus, they sit in a position higher than you. You’re almost lying down; they sit above you and look down on you, all docile. It doesn’t create an atmosphere of dialogue, exchange, negotiation, and questioning.
But, I’ve been lucky to have found a dentist here in Berlin who must be used to kids and seem to sense my inner fear. She finds a way to make me comfortably anxious. She describes everything she does step by step, tells me what to expect, and is generally very careful. More importantly, she breathes kindness out.
Still, my whole body was stiff as wood during my last visit. My neck and fingers were in constant painful tension. My back arching. My legs, arms, and feet crossing. If I could have been in a fetal position, I would have been.
Yet, despite all those exacerbated anxiety symptoms, I entered a meditative state. I’m lying there, being given sporadic information and instructions. There’s not really anywhere specific to look. Tools are invading my mouth. Making noises. Triggering surprising sensations. Producing heat, sprays, and vibrations. There’s nowhere to look, so I start looking inside. My eyes fixate on the strobes above my head, on the zen garden picture installed on the ceiling. I observe the beautiful blue eyes of my dentist, and I escape on the inside. My eyes are open, but they’re not really seeing. I sense the tensions in my body, my chest moving up and down, and I turn on the inside. Most feelings are just passing by. Most thoughts are just flying across. Most sensations are fleeting.
My body carries the trauma. But my mind is in acceptance. Going to the dentist has become an almost meditative experience. A moment where there’s actually nothing else to do but to be present to yourself.
That or my grandfather was a somewhat emotionless sadistic man. Leaving me with a feeling of fear, powerlessness, and trauma toward taking care of my own body.