The Other Side of the Dentist’s Chair

 

For almost thirty years, I had been on the other side of the dental chair. I had spent my professional life treating children with tiny mouths, tiny teeth and, very often, very large fears. I had negotiated with four-year-olds, distracted six-year-olds, reasoned with teenagers and occasionally performed what felt like psychological warfare on a completely determined child who had decided that opening his mouth was simply not going to happen. I had given countless injections, performed pulpectomies, restorations and extractions, and reassured generations of children with the same familiar words: “Don’t worry. It won’t hurt.”

Then, one day, I needed a root canal treatment. Suddenly, I was no longer the dentist sitting beside the chair. I was the person sitting in it.

As a pediatric dentist, I had always considered myself reasonably well acquainted with dental anxiety. I had seen it in every possible form; a child hiding behind a parent, another refusing to open his mouth, some crying even before entering the operatory, and others negotiating fiercely for the right to leave after the first five minutes. I had always watched these reactions with professional understanding. Now I discovered something rather uncomfortable: knowing dentistry does not make you immune to being a patient.

In fact, sometimes, it may make you more aware of what is coming! I knew the diagnosis. I knew the procedure. I knew the instruments that would be used. I knew the sound of the handpiece, the feeling of the rubber dam, the sequence of root canal instrumentation and, most importantly, I knew that sooner or later, the syringe would appear.

As the chair reclined and the dentist prepared to start,  my mind had already started working overtime.  Every complication I had ever taught, read about or discussed seemed to make a brief appearance in my mind.

I have given injections to children for nearly three decades. I know exactly how to make an injection less frightening. I know how to distract a child, how to keep talking, what words to use and how to make that tiny prick seem insignificant. But sitting in the chair, watching the syringe come towards me, I suddenly became very interested in the ceiling. There was a tiny prick, a little pressure and then… nothing. The anaesthetic began to work.

As my lip and cheek slowly became numb, I found myself marvelling at something I had taken for granted for years. Local anaesthesia is one of those wonders of dentistry that we use so routinely that we sometimes forget how extraordinary it actually is. A few minutes earlier, there was apprehension. Now, the fear began to dissipate.

I remember thinking, How many times have I told a child, “See, it didn’t hurt” Now I knew exactly what that sentence meant.

When I heard the sound of the handpiece, I started thinking about what was happening inside my tooth. When an instrument was introduced, I found myself wondering whether everything was going exactly as it should. Perhaps ignorance really is bliss when you are sitting in a dental chair!

I could not see the tooth. I could not see the instruments. I could not see what the dentist was doing. I could only hear the sounds and feel the occasional pressure and for the first time, I experienced what my little patients experience every day; the uncertainty of allowing someone else to work inside your mouth while you have absolutely no idea what is happening .

The treatment itself was surprisingly smooth. There was no significant discomfort, no drama and certainly nothing like the battles .  But what made the experience easier was not the fact that I was a dentist. It was the way my dentist  communicated with me. The calm explanations, the gentle reassurance, the pauses, and simply knowing that I could signal if I was uncomfortable made a tremendous difference. I experienced that trust from the other side. I slowly realised that what I had always tried to give my little patients was not just treatment. It was reassurance. It was a sense of control and above all, it was trust. A child sitting in a dental chair does not know what I know. They don't understand the difference between a high-speed handpiece and an air rotor. They don't know what a file is doing inside a root canal. They don't know why we need an injection or why we ask them to keep their mouth open.

I began to laugh silently at myself. I  had been telling children, “Relax. Nothing to worry about.” and suddenly, I found myself thinking about all those little patients who had passed through my clinic over the years. The child who cried before the treatment even started, the little girl who wanted to hold her mother’s hand throughout the procedure, the boy who asked me seventeen times whether the injection would hurt and the child who came into the clinic trembling but walked out proudly saying, “I was brave!” I had always admired their courage. Now, I admired it even more. Perhaps the most important lesson today was not about root canal treatment at all. It was about empathy.

As dentists, we sometimes become so familiar with procedures that they become routine for us. Injection, isolation, preparation, instrumentation , restoration etc . One step following another. But for the person in the chair, none of it is routine. For a child, it may be a completely new experience.  The sound of the handpiece may be frightening. The sight of the syringe may be intimidating. Even lying back in the dental chair and allowing another person to work inside their mouth can feel like a loss of control. That is why behaviour management is not simply a technique in pediatric dentistry. It is about making a child feel safe when everything around them feels unfamiliar.

A gentle voice matters. A little patience matters. Explaining what is going to happen matters. Giving a child a sense of control matters and sometimes, simply saying, “You are doing very well,” matters far more than we realise.

When the treatment was finally completed, I slowly sat up. My mouth was still numb, my lip felt enormous and unfamiliar, and I probably looked exactly like the patients I had treated for years .But I left the clinic with something more valuable than a completed root canal.  It reminded me that behind every small mouth is a child with very real emotions and behind every apparently confident patient may also be a little bit of that same frightened child.

Whenever a  child sits before me and asks, “Doctor, will it hurt?”, I listen beyond the words. I no longer rush to say, “No, it won’t.” Instead, I tell them, “I’ll be gentle. If you’re uncomfortable, just raise your hand and we’ll stop. We’ll do it together.”  I now understand  in person that reassurance is not about promising a child that they will feel nothing.

It is about making them feel safe enough to face what comes next and when I say, “Don’t worry. You’re doing very well,” I say it with a little more understanding. I know what it feels like to hear those words from the other side of the chair.

                 __________________________________________________________