Bloody gums

All my life I've had a phobia of dentists. Just the idea of those cold hands reaching inside my mouth gives me shivers.

It stems, I think, from my first encounter.

If I had you take a guess what jobs both my parents worked after telling you all that I'm pretty sure you'd already know. My mother and father were both dentists. They had met in dental school after sharing a few classes, but only started dating after bumping into one another a few years later. I think if it wasn't for their intense fear of germs they wouldn't have made it.

My parents hated germs. They couldn't stand the sight of anything that hadn't been disinfected and wiped down with bleach. I would watch them put on six different layers of PPE every morning before heading out to work every day. If you're wondering why they chose that job despite their crippling fear the answer is pretty simple. They learned how to deal with it.

If you see a spider what do you do besides scream and run?

You kill it.

They took the fear they had and learned to fight back. Sure they hated dirt and mud, but what really kept them up at night was the idea of a festering nest inside their own mouths. In their mind the only method that works is to kill the infestation before it gets any worse. They'd drink disinfectant if it meant it wouldn't kill them. Despite this, they were perfect for each other. They were each other's safety blanket, each other's enablers in their crazy attempts to fight off their invisible boogeyman. They were happy.

Until they had me.

You see a baby is the most disgusting creature on the face of the planet and children are no better either. Getting sent off to germ camps and bringing them back every day. Their snot covered hands touching everything, feeling everything, spreading everything. They're awful awful *awful* things… and my parents made sure to remind me of that every day.

In their eyes I was the physical manifestation of everything that terrified them. They couldn't so much as be in the same room with me unless I took a chemical disinfectant bath. I had to shower in bleach before I could even touch them. As I grew their methods became more extreme. As first-timers, they focused on the bigger picture before zoning in on the smaller stuff later.

They didn't focus on my teeth until I was in first grade.

I had my first cavity then. My teeth were slightly yellowed and I didn't mind. I didn't think it was a big deal, I mean which six year old would? I was a kid and kids get cavities. I was a kid.

It didn't matter to them. In their eyes, this was obviously unacceptable.

Beginning then I was to be put on a strict regiment. I wasn't allowed to brush my own teeth because apparently I couldn't be trusted. They would scrub and scrub and scrub until my gums bled. Every day I would cry and beg to brush my own teeth so my mouth wouldn't hurt or burn anymore. I begged and pleaded but their fears far outweighed my comfort. As the mint green mouthwash flooded my open sores I sobbed.

Then came the fateful day they knocked out my baby tooth. It had been loose and ready to fall any day now but at the force they dragged those bristles across my mouth it wasn't a shock it came out when it did.

As they stared at the cavity spotted tooth mixing with the tears and blood dripping down my mouth I saw my mother's eyes trace the empty socket where it had once sat. I saw their eyes widen as the idea came to mind.

As they reached for the pliers they realized... if you kill the nest there's no more spiders.

That next morning I walked into school. As we assembled in the gym getting ready for pictures I stood still staring at my feet. When they motioned for me to sit on the stool and face the camera I hesitated. In the warmest voice I had ever heard, the woman asked me to smile.

I heard her scream as I split my red swollen lips.

With tears in my eyes, I showed her my empty bloody gums.