My dentist is a great guy, and goes out of his way to inflict as little pain as possible. (That's something I can't say about other practitioners I have endured through the years.) But every time I see him, I think of the following story...
Some years ago I had a friend who had previously undergone heart surgery, who told me that his dentist once surprised him greatly. He was suffering from a tooth ache, and called for an emergency appointment. The office manager managed to squeeze him in late in that afternoon. When he arrived at the office, the dentist got him in the chair, and asked, as he routinely did, whether he had taken prophylactic antibiotics prior to the appointment.
It turns out that following certain kinds of surgery (especially joint and valve replacement) it is necessary to take antibiotic pills before the dentist goes to work, to prevent a systemic infection that might compromise the artificial devices. My friend had completely forgotten this precaution in his discomfort, and told the dentist so.
"No problem." the dentist answered. "We'll get you taken care of here." My friend thought no more about it as the dentist went about isolating the problem (a cracked filling) and making the necessary repairs.
When he was done, the dentist asked my friend to remain in the chair, and excused himself. A few moments later the doctor reappeared in the surgery, carrying something in his hand. He set it down on the counter, and turned to close the accordion partition to the clinic hallway. The doctor folded up the arm of the dental couch, and asked my friend to stand up. As he did so, my friend noticed what the doctor had laid on the countertop. It was a sizeable hypodermic syringe, filled with a creamy white medicine.
Memories from his childhood came flooding back, of the doctor administering painful penicillin injections in his tender hindquarters. Sure enough, the dentist was opening drawers and loading cotton balls with reeking alcohol from a brown glass dispenser. "If you'll just loosen your belt and lean over the chair, we can get this taken care of in a jiffy," the dentist instructed, lofting the enormous syringe as he turned to face my now very nervous friend.
"You're going to give me a shot," he asked, stalling for time, "in my butt?" Slowly and reluctantly his hands began to fumble with his belt buckle.
"That's about the size of it," commented the dentist. "This'll teach you to remember to take the pills in future. Now drop those trousers, so we can both get out of here."
Filled with trepidation, my friend opened his slacks, and peeled his pants and underwear down to his knees, and then turned to bend awkwardly over the chair. "I felt more exposed and vulnerable than I had ever felt before," he told me.
The shot itself wasn't all that bad, he said -- but I've never forgotten his experience, and every time I see my dentist I think about what it would be like to have him poke me in the butt with a big old penicillin jab. Maybe someday...