ARCH ENEMY NO. 1: THE DENTIST

Why, you ask? Let me take you back to the 1970s, when I was a wide-eyed primary school pupil at the Convent of the Holy Infant Jesus in Johor Bahru. Yes, we had a dentist at the school.

I don’t remember now how often we were summoned—twice a year, maybe? Time has blurred the details, probably as a coping mechanism. But the trauma? Crystal clear.

The real suspense began when the school nurse strolled down the corridor. We’d all sit up a little straighter, pretending to be invisible. If she walked past our class, we breathed a sigh of relief. But if she knocked on the door, you'd say a little prayer that it wasn’t your name she would call. The chosen one would rise, pale as chalk, and trudge off to meet their fate.

Some kids feared math. Others dreaded exams. But for us, true terror had a name—and it was spelt D-E-N-T-I-S-T.

You'd shuffle off to the little white room of doom, your shoes suddenly sounding like thunder on the corridor tiles. The dentist's office looked innocent enough—clean, clinical, with a chair that resembled a mediaeval torture device more than anything health-related. Shiny tools sat on a tray, all glinting under the fluorescent lights like they were excited to meet your molars.

And then, the dentist would appear. Calm. Professional. Smiling—but not in a comforting way. More like a “Yes, I’m about to drill into your soul” kind of smile.

“Open wide,” she would say.

And you would. Because what else could you do? You were terrified and vaguely convinced that not cooperating would result in more drillings and fillings.

I still don’t know how they decided who needed treatment. Maybe there was a dental lottery. Maybe the nurse just spun a wheel. Or maybe—more likely—it was divine intervention.

And oh, the lecture. “How often do you brush your teeth?” she would ask. And you’d lie, obviously. “Twice a day,” you’d say sweetly, even though you’d barely run a toothbrush across your front teeth that morning. They never believed us, of course. Dentists can smell guilt—or your breath.

The worst part? Coming back to class after your appointment, mouth numb, trying not to drool as your friends stared at you like you’d just returned from war. Someone would whisper, “Did it hurt?” And you’d give the classic survivor’s nod, eyes full of trauma and mystery.

To this day, the sound of a dental drill triggers flashbacks. I could be in a mall, walking past a clinic, hear that whirring—and suddenly I’m nine again, clutching the sides of the chair, praying for mercy and a toothbrush-shaped miracle.

And now?

I only go to the dentist if something is actively falling out of my mouth. And even then, I require emotional support, weeks of mental preparation, and possibly a tranquilliser dart.

* I wrote this as I had a nasty toothache that warrants a visit to the dentist. No drilling or extraction needed, just medication to reduce the swollen gum.