‘This Isn’t Going to Hurt a Bit’ and Other Laughable Lines

It happened again.

There I was chowing down--this time on a plate of mussels in a Santa Monica restaurant--when I heard the unmistakable sound of a tooth breaking.

The last time I heard that noise was two years ago in Rochester, N.Y., when a tooth and a popcorn kernel went head to head and the tooth lost. The time before that a rib bone emerged victorious over a molar.

The worst part of breaking a tooth isn’t the bone-chilling pain that shoots to your core when you drink something cold. Or the fear that if you keep up these chewing habits you’ll be gumming steak before you hit 40.

With all due respect to the American Dental Assn., the absolute worst part is visiting the tooth doctor.

On the surface, dentist phobia seems a little out of proportion. I mean, when you think of it, a surgeon digging in your chest seems a lot scarier than a dentist digging in your mouth.

But, of course, all this logic was nowhere to be found early Saturday morning--hours after the mussel attack--as I read the Yellow Pages under the heading “Dentists.” Because I’m new here, I don’t have a regular dentist. I guess I could have asked my newfound friends for a recommendation, but I wasn’t in enough pain to risk more pain over waking someone at 5:30.

(This is also a good time to confess that I go to dentists only when things get really bad. In Rochester, I found one when the pain from the popcorn wouldn’t go away after three days. And in Phoenix, I sought care only after the agony following the ecstasy of a rack of ribs practically had me baying.)

So anyway, I’m reading the phone book and notice that L.A. dentists certainly are standouts among the medical profession when it comes to advertising. Name me a thoracic surgeon who boasts a “gentle touch” or a podiatrist who offers stereo headphones.

After reading ad after ad--I even called that TV institution 1-800-DENTIST but no one was home--I shamelessly decided to go with the dentist bragging: “We Cater to Dental Chickens.”

Two hours later I was experiencing what I’ll call Dentistry, L.A. Style.

Now this isn’t to say that all dentists here are a chicken’s dream or that all the ones in the East aren’t. But you have to realize that the dentists I’d been to heretofore had the humor of an undertaker. I take that back: I did have a dentist in Queens who got a real kick out of asking, “Fast or slow?” before drilling. And one in Buffalo who just loved to make chain-saw sound effects when he drilled.

Now can you see why dentists and I have never been particularly close? Which brings me to Dr. Rob, the dentist who knows a chicken when he sees one.

Things started off the way you’d expect: The waiting area had dark walls and overstuffed chairs. If you didn’t know better, you’d have thought you were in a 200-year-old Back Bay home instead of a mini-mall overlooking the Playa del Ray post office.

Naturally, with this decor, I expected the dentist to look like, well, a dentist. You know, like my grandfather. Imagine my surprise when Dr. Rob greeted me wearing a Hawaiian shirt and sporting a haircut that, by my mother’s definition, surely means only one thing: He’s a hippie.

If this doesn’t relax a person, you’re pretty hopeless. But then . . . I was directed to . . . THE CHAIR.

I remember trying to keep the conversation light. How about those Lakers? Nice weather we’re having. Going anywhere good on your vacation? Just flew in from Vegas and, boy, are my arms tired.

After two numbing shots in the gum, Dr. Rob asked if I was ready. I said yes, then kicked the stalling tactics into high gear by asking the question that dentists have probably heard since the days when Grog lost his bicuspid to a brontosaurus burger:

“Why do people fear you?”

He explained that dental patients rank high on the Scared Scale because unlike, say, surgical patients, who theoretically should be more frightened, they aren’t knocked out.

“You’re fully aware of everything that’s going on,” he said. Plus, “I’m right in your face. People are uncomfortable when you’re this close. I’m in your mouth and there’s really nothing you can do about it. You have no control.”

Not exactly comforting words on the surface. But when I got home with my new filling, I thought about how easy and painless this procedure had been.

What made the difference?

* Right from the start, I felt at home. The waiting room did not have brochures and posters of gingivitis and crooked smiles; it looked like my living room. The teeth-gone-bad decor was reserved for the inner chamber, where it belongs.

* Dr. Rob made no secret of the fact that people fear members of his profession and he dealt with it honestly rather than trying to convince me that it was all in my mind.

* There were none of those lines I had heard before: “This isn’t going to hurt a bit” or “You’re not going to feel a thing.” The fact is, I felt when the first shot of anesthesia went in and I jumped through the ceiling accordingly. After that, Dr. Rob made a point of asking if I was OK.

* Humor. No chain-saw jokes, thank you. At one point, the dental assistant had fallen behind in suctioning and Dr. Rob said, “Help, she’s drowning here.”

Two days after my visit, Dr. Rob left a message on my answering machine asking how I was doing. Quite a change from dentists I’ve known who contact you six months later via a refrigerator-magnet tooth reminding you of your next appointment.

If I’m sounding like an obnoxious convert, you’re right.

Who knows? Maybe I’ll get braces. Or have a root canal. Or perhaps have my initials etched in my two front teeth.

Now, if I could just get over this fear of mussels.