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To say the least, visiting the dentist is an uncomfortable experience for me. It’s as if whatever plaque builds up on my teeth is extra resistant to the metal scraper, (which, when inflicted against the porcelain of teeth, produces a noise I’m certain is the soundtrack used in hell).
And, is it just me, or does the hygienist operating the suction device never put it in exactly the right spot? I find myself wondering if anyone has ever drowned in their own saliva during a routine dental cleaning, and whether I will be the first. My open jaw tires more easily. And where do I look? In an attempt to act casual and stare only at the ceiling, my eyes tend to dart to the hygienist’s through her protective yellow lenses. “Stop looking at her!” I tell myself, imagining how I appear from her point of view—mouth agape, eyes bugging, every muscle visibly clenched as I wait for her to cue me out of my misery with, “Okay, you can rinse and spit now.”
It’s no wonder why going to the dentist is a known nemesis to the masses. So, in an attempt to have a gentler experience, I researched the boojiest practices I could find. One dentist offered an extensive comfort menu for patients that featured blankets, pillows, stress putty, Goldendoodles, aromatherapy, music, and/or light sedation. Excited at the prospect of a dog in the exam room, I called to book an appointment, only to be massively disappointed they didn’t take my insurance.
So I settled on a no-frills but very positively Google-reviewed dentist a few minutes from where I live. On the drive there, I was more nervous than I’d ever been. How could I invent ways to make the experience more palatable (no pun intended) in only a few short minutes? Or would I simply have to suffer through it?
The Fear of the Dentist Is Real
Though the office didn’t offer laughing gas or Goldendoodles, it did have a flatscreen TV in the exam room playing Martha Stewart reruns. The assembling of a banana cream pie was a welcome distraction against my catastrophizing thoughts about the dental X-rays taking place. (“They put a lead blanket over my chest, but shouldn’t I be wearing, like, a lead helmet?”)
Finally the time came for the cleaning. As the hygienist stepped on the pedal that reclined my chair, my body reluctantly flattened into a horizontal line—as if I were ascending to the peak of a roller coaster I’d been peer-pressured into riding. My heart rate quickened as I lost sight of Martha and the pie. “I won’t get to watch her taste it,” I lamented.
I caught sight of the familiar suspects, gleaming medal sticks with various sinister tips that were clanked onto the tray beside my head. The hygienist perched her latexed hands an inch above my face, probably assuming I’d take the hint. After a beat, she kindly asked, “Open?” I obliged.
The first few minutes were gentle as she counted my teeth and assessed the situation. Then she grasped the metal scraper in one hand and went to town, pressing it hard against my teeth. A quick pang of discomfort shot from my tooth to my jaw and made me wince. “You okay?” she asked. “Yyyhaa,” I responded, her hands still in my mouth. If I said “no,” I assumed it would just drag the process out even longer. Or I’d start sobbing. And I didn’t want either of those things.
The Moment I Remembered My Yoga Practice
Lying in the dental chair, I clasped my hands over my stomach, bracing myself against the impact of each new metal strike while hoping the hygienist would leave me at least enough teeth to eat solids. I squeezed my hands together, hoping the pressure would take my mind off the invasion in my mouth.
Then I had an awareness. My abdominals were tightened, my hips tensed, my feet flexed, and my shoulders climbed up by my ears. Every part of me was resisting. “Could this be making it worse?” I wondered. The dental cleaning was happening whether I was tensing my muscles or not. “Should I try not?”
All it took was this second-long thought to carve out a new path of possibilities.
Kind of like in those body-scan meditations where you’re instructed to activate all the muscles in your body and then release them, I let go of my hands. Then, though it felt like the most vulnerable thing I could do, I relaxed my feet. My hips followed. Finally, I let my stomach fall. I felt completely unprotected. Without the feeling of armoring myself with clenched muscles, I had no other choice but to face what was happening.
I imagined myself leaning in, moving toward the experience instead of away from it. I repeated the word “yes” like a mantra in my head. “Yes” to getting my teeth cleaned; “yes” to the hygienist who is (supposedly) helping me; “yes” to the discomfort; “yes” to the terrible sounds; “yes” to the fear.
As I focused my mind on a single word and let my body relax (as much as I could with two hands in my mouth), I recalled my yoga practice. Take away the dental professionals, the reclining chair, the Martha Stewart playing in the background, and wasn’t I sort of in Savasana? Whether I was or wasn’t, I acted like I was. I closed my eyes, released the muscles in my face—well, except my jaw—and focused on the breaths I took in and out of my nose. I still had butterflies in my stomach, and I still wanted to be anywhere else but in that room. But I could kind of let go of the need to *do* anything about it. Because there I was. And I could practice yoga even here. I was in Savasana, even if the background noise was the sound of metal scraping against teeth.
Just as I could practice trusting the hygienist not to let me walk out of there with no teeth, I could practice trusting my body to relax even in an uncomfortable situation. Even if—especially if—I wasn’t totally sure it was possible.
I once attended a yoga class in which the teacher told us after the final resting pose, “Even if your mind was running through your grocery list, you were still practicing Savasana.” That’s what my Corpse Pose at the dentist felt like. In an environment in which I could control very little, I could commit to noticing what my body and mind were doing and allow that to be my practice.
The hygienist finished using her metal tools, by which point I felt proud of myself for handling something I’d considered an obstacle in a new and different way. I even felt comfortable leaving Savasana, or “bringing my awareness back into the room,” when she polished my teeth with a bubble gum-flavored paste. (Which was kinda reminiscent of the times I reward myself with an iced coffee after yoga. Post-Savasana sweet treat.)
The experience seriously made me consider what other moments in my life couldn’t be Savasana-fied. Where else could I lean into instead of away from awkwardness, fear, discomfort, cringiness? It’s an experiment I intend to continue—at least until the Goldendoodle starts taking my insurance.
