So.... immediately after my root canal back in August, I started writing this "Dear John Letter," but only now, after a time of healing, am I able to finish it.
My Dearest Endodontist,
I hate to write this letter.
Ever since my friendly neighborhood dentist introduced me to you, I've been enamored with the idea of you forcing yourself upon my pulp and enamel. I've longed to have dozens of your tiny files jammed and twisted into my nerves' canals. My heart was a flutter with the thought of me sitting nervously, captive and victim to your every dental whim.
But, no! You had to destroy my idyllic oral utopia. You failed to even introduce yourself before shoving your gorilla size hands into my mouth. The horrible rubber mouth guard you muffled over my face! Endodontist, you didn't even ask if I was latex allergic! You do realize that I saw you look away while filing my teeth, right? You probably weren't even thinking of me or my needs (even if that need was to spit).
Now to be fair, you give a shot like no other. Pain? No, there was no pain, but that doesn't mean I wasn't hurt. Yes, I was hurt! Hurt that you didn't know what procedure I needed, hurt that you didn't even know my name until you were almost finished, hurt to give you several hundreds of dollars (at the time that services were rendered) and you didn't even shake my hand.
Oh, Endodontist, why did it have to end like this? Gone are the halcyon days of fluoride gel and easy listening music... why couldn't this relationship work out? Why couldn't you have showed the most basic of courtesies? In officially severing this relationship, the only thing left to say is: You're No Pediatrician!