Recently, my wife experienced a dull mouth soreness that periodically occurs as a result of dental work she had done several years ago. Fortunately, the flare-ups haven’t developed into major problems. Her solution usually involves gargling with salt water and hydrogen peroxide.

Her problems still serve as a reminder of my own past oral nightmares. I don’t have a morbid fear of mouth divers, but few dentist visits in my life have had a happy ending.

Regardless of how methodical I am in my approach to regular brushing and flossing, it never seems to work as advertised. Just the thought of someone poking fingers and sharp objects anywhere in the vicinity of my uvula sends my gag reflex into overdrive.

I don’t like dental hygienists, either. In college I made the mistake of acting as a co-worker’s subject during her state licensing exam. Unfortunately, she was so intent on making the grade the first time around, she left trenches where my gums used to be.

My aversion to dentists has a deep psychological basis because my stepfather was a dentist. Mom always reasoned that his skills saved us a bundle long before dental insurance became commonplace. But to me, he was simply the male version of the wicked stepmothers who populated various fairy tales of my childhood.

My sister was worse. When she was six, Frankenstein’s oral surgeon decided the only way to alleviate the pain from her bad tooth was to pull it. What he didn’t realize was my sister’s fear of dentists is not passive. Navy SEALS could learn a thing or two about lethal resistance from Kim.

Despite pushing three standard doses of Novocaine and employing the rest of us to sit on her, my stepfather still couldn’t get near the offending tooth. The crying, screaming and primal grunts I heard that day sounded more like an abattoir than a dental office.

Strangely enough, those sounds didn’t come from Kim. They came from my stepfather after Sis demonstrated her healthy incisors by sinking them into his forearm. On this occasion, it was the dentist who ended up with his own blood, rather than that of the patient, on his white smock. He finally grew weary of the three-hour battle of wills and threw in the towel. ‘Scuse me ... I mean the dental napkin.

Kim’s tooth fell out on its own two weeks later.

Years later, I discovered it was just my karma to dislike my stepfather and not because he was a dentist. After all, he was a Georgia alumnus and I went to USC.

The mere realization I had spent those years swishing and spitting at a Bulldog somehow made the memories far more satisfying.

T&D Staff Writer Phil Sarata can be reached by e-mail at psarata@timesanddemocrat.com or by phone at 803-533-5540. Discuss this and other stories online at TheTandD.com.

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