The Webster definition for dread is, “to anticipate with great fear and apprehension.” I’ll add to it “something you’re going to have to do anyway.” There’s nothing I dread more than going to the dentist and that’s where I’m headed to day. It’s only for a check up and cleaning but honestly, I’d rather go to the gynecologist.
The sad thing is I’m the daughter of a dentist and my dentist is a friend. It obviously has nothing to do with the person behind the mask. The dread is I could possibly have a cavity, I know I’ll have one of those jack-your-jaw-open headaches about the middle of the afternoon, my gums will be sore, and the hygienist will tell me I need to do a better job of flossing. I always tell her I floss twice a day and that my gums bleed every time. She just smiles. I feel like a little kid in trouble
I probably would be a good candidate for the happy gas. I’ve never used it. When I do have to have work done, my dentist, at my request, uses so much Novocain it would paralyze a small animal. I absolutely feel no pain, but I can’t eat for hours without unknowingly chewing a hole in my cheek. I can forget about drinking anything until the feeling comes back.
You’d think after giving birth three times, a trip to the dentist wouldn’t even come up at all on my radar of dread, but it does. I do enjoy having teeth, so I’ll go. I’ll whine, but I’ll go.