There are brave people in this world.

Firefighters. Surgeons. Anyone who willingly drives on Florida highways and is foolish enough to obey the speed limit.

And then there’s me.

A dental chicken.

Not mildly anxious. Not  just I don’t love cleanings.

No, I am full theatrical production, showcasing a tight jaw, and on dental day, hopelessly bargaining with a higher power.

This fear of drill masters is real.

My story is I do not go to the dentist for a cleaning and end up with sparkling teeth.

I go for what I am told will be a cleaning that somehow escalates into an over budget, over produced mini-series.

One cavity becomes two.

Two becomes a crowning ceremony. Sensitivity ends up a root canal which flows into an implant.

At this point, I’m convinced the dental gods have me on a watch list.

Sadly, due to all my procedures and my parents best friend who in reality was a lousy dentist, I never outgrew it.

Childhood fear? Still there.

Adult logic? Nowhere to be found once the chair reclines and the paper bib is clipped on.

Life occasionally throws you a bone and I found my answer in a demure Florida town, ironically the state that has no helmet laws, bans great literature and allows residents to openly carry firearms in public without a permit.

Referred, of all people, by a former NCAA basketball star and his lovely wife, which, frankly, is how all important medical decisions should be made by those who can handle big balls.

Enter a one-stop shop for dental redemption.

The promise? Fix everything.

The goal? A Hollywood smile and a game plan for a healthy mouth.

Sadly, my recent reality? Two wisdom teeth extractions and a root canal.

Of course it is.

But here’s where the plot twist kicks in.

Dr. Ty Eriks, who once carried a football at the University of Washington like his life depended on it, made a strategic pivot. He successfully navigated an end run around the potential for getting his teeth knocked out and started fixing them.

A wise man.

There’s something oddly comforting about a dentist who has already survived far worse impacts than anything happening in that chair. You get the sense that whatever is about to occur in your mouth he has seen worse and somehow, through a combination of his calm professionalism, actual empathy, and a small dose of pharmaceutical encouragement, I actually hope to survive.

Not gracefully, but successfully which, in my world, counts as a win.

So yes, I remain a dental chicken.

I still flinch at the word procedure and I will always suspect that a quick visit to the dentist is a trap, but now I have a place.

I have recruited an outstanding team, starring a former running back turned dental savior, an endodontist, a periodontist and featured in the line up, Erika, the Bill Belichick of office management, who also offers a humorously confident and engaging shoulder to cry on.

I hold dear the faint, flickering possibility that even I might one day sit in that dental chair without mentally drafting my will.

Drill, Baby, Drill.

*Eriks Dental Group of Boynton Beach, Florida.