Moments before the chair

If you have ever watched a medical drama on TV, you can probably remember those moments when someone gets to the hospital and their world almost stops.

Much like suddenly, it all moves in slow motion. The background music intensifies as they take it all in.

I reality, dentistry isn't that different. You're not inside a TV show. And the world doesn't really go into slow motion.

However, everyone is busy in their routine day to day jobs.

You just walked in - nervous and not quite knowing what to expect.

Your 5 senses go into override as if trying to take it all in so fast that your mind can't quite process the moment.

The reality is that the invisible part of the patient's journey to the dental practice, matters just as much as the visit itself. And it doesn't start at the door.

The confirmation email sat unopened for 2 days.

Ever since you booked it, the appointment had been quietly following you around.

Sitting in the back of your mind while you folded washing.

While you drove to work.

While you brushed your teeth that little bit longer at night.

At first, booking it felt relieving.

Like finally doing something you had been putting off for far too long.

But as the days passed, the feeling started to change.

On the way there, you can easily feel the momentum building.

The stressful drive feels a paradox of emotions.

Glad you finally made this decision, frightened this was the wrong decision to make.

'Will they judge me?'

'Will they even listen to me?'

'I'm probably going to be told off for something.'

The traffic hits standstill.

'Oh I' m going to be late.'

'They might not even want to see me now.'

'I forgot to check if there's easy parking nearby.'

'Did I floss this morning?' 'Can they tell?'

You get there.

Heart racing.

Head pounding.

The conversation inside your head is louder than ever.

But you still must find parking.

Finally you step out of the car.

You adjust your hair. Nervously check your teeth in the mirror.

Time to go.

You can see the door in the distance.

'Does it look busy?'

'Will they be running late?'

Your hand touches the handle.

It's metallic and cold.

The door feels heavy.

The smell is a mix of lavender and strong disinfectant.

You look up.

There she is. Sitting comfortably behind a computer desk, looking at you.

She smiles and introduces herself - the warmth in her voice is disharming.

But you didn't quite catch it.

Your mind is going at a million miles per hour.

Your nervous bladder is starting to wake up.

'They seem nice.'

'Her teeth look so lovely. Is she looking at mine?'

'What if they...'

'I should have...'

They hand you a tablet with something for you to fill in.

The dreaded waiting room awaits.

There's other people there.

'Are they nervous?'

'Are they regulars?'

'Do they know if the dentist will be nice?'

'Maybe I can still leave.'

Oh this nervous bladder won't calm down!

And this form has so many questions.

I can't think of any answers.

I just want to get out of here and be done.

'How long will I wait?'

'My hands are so sweaty.'

Someone comes to ask me if I want a drink.

'That's nice.'

Nothing like a drink to calm me down right now.

As I calm down. My eyes start analysing the room.

The room has large windows, it's bright but just in the right amount.

There's a softness to it, as the light from the window bounces on the floor and the furniture. It feels safe and cosy.

I can hear some background music. It's gentle and melodic, instead of a boring radio show.

The lavender smell is a little stronger and it brings back nice memories of Spring and Summer.

The seats are soft and velvety.

They feel warm and cosy.

The tea is herbal and smooth.

There is a basket next to your seat. It has disposable toothbrush packages.

That reminds you.

'I must brush my teeth!!'

You visit their costumer toilets.

The lavender smell turns to citrus and clean.

The colours are warm with soft lighting.

You brush your teeth and check them in the mirror repeatedly.

You get back to the waiting room so much more relaxed and confident.

It doesn't feel like a waiting room anymore.

It's a lounge. A relaxing place that you choose to sit in before an event.

Like a safe place to just take a moment and breathe.

And with that realization, you notice that for the first time since you left home this morning, you unclench your jaw.

You can hear light hearted conversations in the background.

You start noticing the people.

They are busy, but not rushing.

Everything seems to have a flow.

They seem relaxed and smiling.

'It must feel nice to work here.'

You pick up a magazine from the table. It's full of smiles. Before and after photos with written feedback from patients.

It's the reassurance you needed.

'This place feels right.'

'I feel ready to trust.'

'I'll be in good hands.'

A gentle sound brings you back to the room.

Someone just called your name.

____________________

A warm greeting.

Soft lighting.

A calm room.

A kind tone of voice.

It all may sound small.

But when someone arrives carrying fear, shame, uncertainty, and years of avoidance, those things are not small at all.

Sometimes the first part of treatment is not dentistry.

Sometimes it’s simply helping the nervous system realise:

You are safe here.