For a moment, they both laughed. The tension eased. The patient’s shoulders dropped from around his ears. The dentist could actually feel the anxiety evaporating out of the room, replaced by the warm relief that comes only from humor cutting through fear like a clean, well-sharpened instrument.
But the moment didn’t last long.
“Alright,” Dr. Patel said as he prepared the actual sedation pill. “Now that that’s out of the way, let’s get the real medication going.”
The patient hesitated. “This one isn’t… you know…”
“No,” the dentist assured. “Strictly medical.”
He took the pill, swallowed it, and waited. And then, as sedation gently settled over him, he began talking. And once he started, he did not stop.
First, he introduced himself fully. Middle name included. Then he shared his traumatic childhood tetanus-shot experience. Then he talked about his ex-wife and how she left because “apparently a fear of syringes isn’t an emotional deal-breaker, but my mother is.” Then he described, in detail, every dream he’d ever had involving dental drills.
The dentist listened with the patience of a saint, nodding at the appropriate intervals, his assistant biting the inside of her cheek to avoid laughing.
