The Dentist’s Fear: A Root Canal Gone Wrong
🔴 THE DENTIST SAID I NEEDED A ROOT CANAL — THEN HE STARTED TO CRY
I smelled the latex of his gloves and knew something was wrong even before he spoke. “This isn’t… normal,” he stammered.
I could feel the buzzing of the drill through my skull, amplified a thousand times, and the bright operating light burned into my eyes as I waited. Then he pulled back, and I saw the fear etched on his face.
“I… I can’t do this,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “I just can’t. You need to see someone else.” Someone else? What was so wrong with my stupid tooth? My jaw started to ache.
He looked at me with such pity and horror, then just bolted from the room, leaving me sitting there with my mouth gaping open, drool dripping onto my bib. The assistant nervously apologized, promising to reschedule.
But the rescheduled appointment isn’t with another dentist; it’s with the hospital.
👇 Full story continued in the comments…
The hospital. That’s where they sent me. I spent the next few days riddled with anxiety, convinced my tooth was housing some rare, terrifying ailment. The waiting room was a vortex of hushed whispers and concerned glances. Finally, my name was called. A stern-faced doctor in a crisp white coat led me into a sterile examination room.
“We understand you’re having difficulty with a root canal,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. He examined my chart, then my tooth, a small penlight illuminating the exposed cavity.
“Well, Mr…?”
“Smith,” I offered, my voice a little squeaky.
“Mr. Smith, the previous dentist was understandably… overwhelmed,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Your tooth isn’t the problem.”
My heart pounded. The words ‘terrifying ailment’ echoed in my mind. What did *that* mean?
He continued, “We’ve run a series of tests. There’s no dental issue. The problem… is with the dentist himself.”
He paused, letting the words sink in. Then, with a sigh, he explained. Apparently, the dentist, a relatively new graduate, had a severe case of dental phobia. The mere sight of a drill, the sounds of the procedure, and the responsibility of causing pain had triggered an acute anxiety attack. It had become so severe, he was unable to perform even routine procedures.
The doctor chuckled dryly. “Irony, Mr. Smith, is a cruel mistress. He’s currently… seeking counseling. The hospital will be happy to schedule you with another dentist.”
Relief flooded through me. It wasn’t a hidden disease, it was just… the dentist. He wasn’t crying because of my tooth, but because of his own fears. The ache in my jaw suddenly lessened, replaced by a wave of bemused understanding.
I was finally booked in for a root canal with a new dentist, who, thankfully, seemed perfectly composed. The procedure was… well, not pleasant, but not a harbinger of doom either. As I sat in the chair, the dentist asked, “You doing okay, Mr. Smith?”
I just smiled and thought, “Compared to my last dental appointment? Absolutely.” And the whole ordeal gave me something to talk about with my new dentist, who even offered me a sympathetic discount. The only thing I was afraid of now was more puns.