I HATE going to the dentist; no, I mean, I really hate going to the dentist.
My phobia began when I was nine. I grew up in the '60s, when it was thought a kindness to feed children sweets and sugar-laden drinks; like many, I ended up needing a filling or three.
Dragged along to our local dentist, I remember the place resembled a haunted house with no consideration given to patients who happened to be children.
My mother wasn't allowed to accompany me; as according to a less-than sympathetic dental nurse, I was 'a big boy and would be fine'.
As I was lifted onto the blood-red dentist seat, what looked like a fog light was swivelled into my eyes, increasing my anxiety. Through the blinding haze, I saw the white-coated dentist approach - he looked older than the house and was months from retirement; I was unlucky enough to be one of his last patients.
He was a nice enough old chap who spoke to me as if I was a shrunken adult, as was the norm then.
"Well, little man, what seems to be the problem? Just you open up wide and we'll have it fixed in a jiffy". The nurse prised open my rictus jaws and I watched in horror as a sharp-hooked implement started probing my teeth.
Satisfied with his examination the old man slowly straightened up, whispering instructions to the nurse. The next thing I knew he was standing over me with a syringe which looked the size of a harpoon. "Now, this will sting a little and that's all you'll feel," he assured me.
The needle was lowered, and I was relieved there was absolutely no pain; I did gag a bit, however, at the horrible liquid which swilled down my throat. What had happened was due to his poor eyesight, poor aim or just my poor luck - the 'oul fella had squirted the novocaine anaesthetic into my mouth instead of injecting it into my gum.
After the requisite period had elapsed, the nurse began wedging cotton wool in my mouth as, for the first time in my life, I heard the horrific whine of a dentist's drill.
"This won't hurt a bit," he said, as the drill went straight into my eroded tooth, hitting a bullseye on its nerve.
The jolt of pain felt like I'd been electrocuted and, in one smooth motion, I kicked the drill out of the old man's hand while vaulting from the chair. My mother later said I'd ran past her so fast it wasn't until she saw the chasing nurse that she realised something was wrong. As for me, I looked neither right nor left as I ran across three busy roads to get home.
I flatly refused to go near a dentist for 10 years, resulting in teeth so eroded that when I smiled, I looked like I'd a mouthful of burnt chips. Eventually, I found an understanding practitioner sensitive to my phobia, something which only came about due to me being a pathetic Gaelic footballer.
On the pitch, my position was full back due to the fact I was a 15 stone weightlifter, incapable of either running or jumping. My role was that of a human blockade, tasked with dissuading opposing forwards from daring to approach our goal.
During one match I faced my worst fear - a blisteringly-fast opponent capable of scoring with both feet. At half-time my coach was clear: "O'Kane, if he gets past you once more, I'm taking you off. I don't care how you stop him, but stop him."
No more needed said, so when my nemesis once more sprinted towards my goal, I blindly launched myself in his direction. For once my timing was perfect, and when the unstoppable force met the immovable object, he was launched into the air, somersaulting a full 180 degrees before crunching to the ground.
I was rightly shown a red card yet breathed a sigh of relief when I saw my prone opponent slowly struggle to his feet and shake off the tackle. He then turned to see who had attempted his murder and, to my horror, I recognised the face of... my dentist.
From that day until he retired, Mr R couldn't do enough for me, and the moral of the story is clear. If you're afraid of your dentist, take up powerlifting, then Gaelic, then brutally tackle them in a match. You'll never feel fear again.
