It started off as a routine day. Patient sits down, I need to do fillings on the lower first and second molars. Easy case on paper. I prep my tray, position the airotor, take a breath — and that’s when it happened.
The tongue.
The beast.
The undefeated gladiator of the mouth.
Now, this wasn’t just any tongue. This was a muscular, oversized, overly confident slab of meat that moved like a wild snake on a Red Bull high.
I kid you not — the tongue had a personality, and it was ready to brawl.
Inside My Head:
“Bro. Just move a little. Just a liiiittle to the right.”
Tongue: slides directly over the cavity prep.
“NO NO NO—WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
Tongue: begins doing Zumba.
“HELLO?? WHY ARE YOU FLEXING? You’re not the main character here!”
Tongue: flattens itself like a pancake over my cotton roll.
“You win. I quit. Take the bur, finish the filling yourself.”
I tried retracting it with the mouth mirror — denied.
Tried cotton rolls — it absorbed them like a sponge and rebounded harder.
At one point, I thought maybe I was hallucinating. Was I fighting a tongue or being physically punished by it?
Every time I reached for the second molar, the tongue would lunge back with full force like it sensed my intent.
My mirror fogged.
My suction got stuck.
My soul? Halfway out the door.
I swear I spent 80% of the appointment just wrestling with that thing.
And mind you — this was government clinic life. No fancy tongue retractors. No cheek holders. Just raw willpower and regret.
But somehow, with shaky hands and 3 mental breakdowns later, I managed to complete the fillings.
The occlusion was good. The anatomy was decent.
The trauma? Deep.
Moral of the Story?
Sometimes it’s not caries that challenge you.
It’s an overly enthusiastic tongue that thinks it runs the show.
So here’s to all the dentists silently arguing with tongues in their heads while looking completely composed on the outside. You’re not alone.
We’ve all fought.
We’ve all suffered.
And we’ve all survived — barely.
