I have a long history with dentists; it started, pre-flouride, with my baby teeth.
My first dentist drilled without novocaine. My fillings had fillings. So from about age four to twenty-two I went under the drill with white knuckles and a genuinely pathological resignation to pain.
As an adult, I sought dentists who used novocaine, and I blessed the drug. But then came dentist music: wailing saxophones, bleating vocalists. Or 50s with decibels. A whole new kind of pain.
Eventually I had a dentist who played classical music, quiet and subtle. For me, analgesic: calming, deep-breathing sounds. He retired, alas, and his younger associate took over — I like him despite his apparent aversion to eighteenth-century composers.
Last week he was taking an impression of my upper teeth. A messy procedure. He had shaped a tray — a goo-filled trough — just for me. I have geranium planters that are daintier than that tray was, but he was determined to fit it into my mouth. I could feel the goo coming out my ears, but still he worked it inward, upward.
At that moment, the 60s exploded on us. Drums! Guitars! Volcanic energy! And the smashing percussive intro led inexorably to that immortal question “Do you love me now that I can dance?”
I had a mouthful of construction equipment, but I couldn’t help myself: I started laughing. Would the goo settle in my lungs or hit the wall?
I conclude that schools of dentistry do not offer pertinent courses. The relationship between dentist music and patient disadvantage has not been studied. “The Trajectory of Goo as an Effect of Mid-Twentieth-Century Rock Music” is overdue as thesis.
I think the ADA should chew on that.