I went to the dentist yesterday. The dentist herself is lovely and we often end up talking about faith while she works. She is warm, calm, and genuinely kind. I still hate going, though. I always have.
People may assume it’s an autism thing. Dental environments are full of bright lights, close faces, cold metal, chemical smells, and loud drills. Those parts are unpleasant, but they’re not the main issue for me. The bright light in my face is something I really dislike, but I’m not overwhelmed by the sensory intensity of the environment in the way many autistic people are. My difficulty sits somewhere else.
The feeling of someone exploring my mouth is what I struggle with. A rubber glove against my cheek makes my skin crawl. The suction tube bothers me even more. It pulls at my tongue and cheeks in a way that feels unpredictable and out of control. I can cope with the metal mirror. That part is fine. The problem is the regular cleans. When you cannot use your arms properly, you cannot maintain your teeth the way you want. I try. I invested in an electric toothbrush today after my dentist recommended it, and hope it helps. Even so, the scraping tool for plaque is the real challenge. Every stroke against my teeth makes me grip the chair and wait for it to be over. The mouth is one of the most sensitive parts of the body, so heightened oral sensitivity makes complete sense to me.
Strangely, I don’t mind the dentist being close to my face. The hygienist is different. Her proximity unsettles me. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the suction. Maybe it’s the lack of precision. The dentist moves with intention. She knows exactly what she’s doing. The hygienist obviously does too or she wouldn’t be working there, but it feels less controlled. I end up swallowing bits of water and plaque while she works, which only adds to the discomfort. I try not to gag, but it’s hard.
Being a powerchair user adds another layer. I don’t transfer to the dentist chair any more. I don’t even think my weakened core would let me. I drive as close as possible, recline my own chair, and pull myself back into a semi‑lying position. Once I’m back, that’s it. I can’t adjust. I can’t reach the button to change the function. I have to ask the dentist to do it. I feel restricted in that position. I can’t move away if something hurts. I can’t lift a hand to signal discomfort. I’m stuck while rubber gloves press against my mouth, pull my cheeks, and tools scrape at my teeth. The lack of physical control is difficult. I try and cope. Push through it. I sing worship music in my head, close my eyes, focus on God, and tolerate as much as I can.
Childhood plays its part too. My teeth have always been strong. I’m told this every time I go, and I’m grateful. I’ve only ever had one filling. Hannah has had far worse experiences and has needed major work, which deepens her fear of the dentist. My problem isn’t decay or pain. It’s memory.
My baby teeth didn’t fall out naturally. Strong roots meant they stayed firmly in place. I remember only three coming out on their own. An apple and a piece of raw carrot claimed two. One wiggled out at school. The rest had to be removed.
OK. That's possibly an exaggeration. I probably lost more naturally, but I don’t remember that. I do remember spending a lot of time in the dentist’s chair as a child, being injected and having teeth pulled. I collected pieces of a Lego medieval set because of it. Every visit earned me another item. If you pushed me, I’d say at least six or seven of my baby teeth were removed, possibly more. Some of it was due to strong roots. Some was because adult teeth erupted in the wrong position. Delayed exfoliation might explain it. This is just where some people don’t naturally lose their baby teeth. I don’t know. I only know that I was there often, and it shaped how I feel now.
If you had to go through that, I’d assume you wouldn’t like the dentist either. It’s no surprise that I dislike going. I’m thankful my teeth are strong. I’m thankful I don’t need the work Hannah does. I simply don’t like the experience. I’m not sure anyone does.
Maybe it’s not fully an autism thing. I’m sure some of those bits at the start contribute, but not completely. Some of it is childhood trauma. I dread finding out I need work, despite having good teeth and only ever requiring one filling. Some of it is the lack of control.
Maybe it’s a human thing. The invasion. The vulnerability. The strange feeling of someone working inside your mouth. The necessity of it. The way we endure it because we must, not because we want to. Yet we still go, open our mouths, and trust the hands that help us. Maybe that’s the part that matters most.
Either way, I'm grateful I can wait another six months.
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