The Dental Chair That Has Seen It All

As I sat and thought about that chair — not a throne, not a recliner, not some sculpted ergonomic marvel — just a chair, worn by years and softened by lives — I found myself transported. Not to one moment, but to all of them. Every chair I’ve known since dental school... they’ve all blended into this one memory.

In 25 years, there have been many: cracked vinyl, shining leather, metal bases, sleek arms. But they’ve all shared the same sacred duty — to hold stories. And I, more than a dentist, have been their quiet co-witness.

I remember the very first one — in the clinical halls of my college. It seemed monstrous then. I walked toward it with gloves too big, and confidence too small. That chair saw my first patient — a classmate, nervous and trusting. It also bore the weight of my embarrassment when I couldn’t find the right angle for a mirror, or when my cotton roll flew into the air.

It was there through the crucible of clinical exams — the invigilators peering over shoulders, my heart racing as though I were in an operating theatre and not a student clinic. That chair bore my failures. It also felt the rising tide of triumph when I first completed a perfect cavity prep.

Then came private practice — the first one. The chair stood shining, unused for hours. I'd sit beside it, praying for the doorbell to ring. One patient a day. Then two. Sometimes none. That chair watched me wait with hope and despair, in equal measure.

It has heard the piercing screams of children, the exaggerated complaints of overgrown egos, the stories of patients who just needed someone to listen. It has seen blood, tears, laughter, sometimes in the same day.

It has endured with me — the assistant who overfilled trays, dropped mirrors, and asked the same questions daily. And later, it witnessed the silent poetry between me and the assistant who knew my every move. We never had to speak. Our rhythm was clinical choreography. The chair nodded in approval, always.

It has felt my anger — misdirected, built up from failure, exhaustion, or a cancelled appointment after a day of preparation. It has also seen me cry, not from pain — but because I couldn’t save a tooth, or a patient who trusted me too much.

It has quietly been part of moments that looked like love — but weren’t. The kind of respect that passes between professionals who dream in sterility and acrylic. Not romance, but reverence. Not flirtation, but admiration. A glance exchanged under the clinic light. That was enough.

It held elderly patients who whispered stories of wars and weddings while I scaled their teeth. It supported young brides anxious about aesthetics. It held the jaws of teenagers hiding pain beneath attitude.

It has become my second spouse. My partner in healing, my silent friend. The clinic? My second home. My staff — the receptionists who managed chaos with grace, the housekeeping angels who kept our world clean, the administrators who rarely get thanks — they are all part of this chair’s tale.

It has seen them all. The new faces — full of dreams. The old ones — walking away quietly, leaving echoes. The laughter. The gossip. The birthday cakes cut in the pantry. The anger when salaries were delayed. The sighs when someone resigned.

And me? I am just the one who touches it every day, not realizing it touches me too.

This chair — this inanimate object — has lived more lives than I have. It has witnessed love, fear, joy, grief, purpose, and emptiness. It has heard prayers. It has heard lies. It has held broken molars, broken hearts, broken days.

And tomorrow, it will do it again.

No applause. No complaints. Just presence.

The dental chair has seen it all.

And now, after a long, forced pause in the symphony of clinical life, I find myself longing for its familiar silence once more. Not out of habit, but because the chair — that old, worn companion — still feels like home. Perhaps it’s time to return. Not to reclaim the past, but to begin anew... with it by my side.

Dr. SSP