I brush three times a day with a real toothbrush (not, I should clarify,
a toilet brush).
I even floss without fail.
I also try to avoid rinsing with hydrochloric acid.
What did this get me?
Three crowns, six fillings, two root canals and $3,500 in dental bills.
I’m starting to get a complex. Whenever someone asks why I’m going to
the dentist for the seventh time in two months, I feel compelled to
begin by saying, “I brush three times a day and even floss without
fail.”
I should mention that I shower and change my underwear too.
As embarrassed as I am about it, since the beginning of the year, I’ve
spent hours getting to know my dentist and her hygienist, Stan. They’re
really quite nice. Stan is from Baltimore, where I went to college, so
we can discuss those Baltimore neighborhoods that most terrified us. My
dentist, despite living in a community north of Westchase, is a regular
reader of the WOW classifieds. She’s looking for a good exercise machine
– one that folds up to save space.
We’ve bonded, you see. Like silver amalgam and a molar.
It starts with the dental X-rays. This basically amounts to vertically
inserting metal pancake turners into my mouth and biting down on them
hard. Hence, I suspect, the need for the crowns.
The X-rays reveal my wisdom teeth, which have been happily sitting in my
jaw for three decades. The dentist makes clucking sounds and tries to
convince me I should spend $3,000 to have them pulled out of my ears
with piano wire.
I politely decline: “If it’s OK with you, Doctor, my fourth and fifth
vertebrae aren't bothering me either, so I’m going to leave them in my
body too.”
So they go mining for other potential treasure. They find about ten
amalgam fillings dating from my wild, pre-pubescent youth, spent
inhaling penny candy and Pepsi at Vince Zumo’s store, just across from
St. Paul’s Elementary School.
Two of the teeth are even cracked.
“Oh,” says the dentist. “You’re a grinder.”
This, I quickly conclude, is more than just a provocative high school
dance move.
After coating the inside of my cheek with a pink, numbing goo, they
inject the painkiller. This paralyzes one entire side of my face,
transforming me into Sylvester Stallone. I not only slur everything, but
I also can no longer keep my own saliva in my mouth. Later, when I get
up to rinse in a nearby sink, I try to hold my mouth closed to swish the
water around. A jet of water shoots out of my face like I’m some naked,
dilapidated cherub in a Roman fountain.
Yes, it was that disturbing.
I quickly clean off the mirror before anyone sees it.
As they discus which hole to add to my head first, I notice that the
dentist office of my youth is gone. Back then there used to be a sink
with constantly running water next to my head. This allowed me to rinse
without looking in a mirror.
Modern dentists just use your mouth as a sink. Instead of installing a
drain, they simply insert a flexible vacuum hose that gurgles the entire
time, forever searching for your tongue to suck into oblivion.
One upside of the modern dentist office?
It has TVs.
Stan likes Jerry Springer.
The problem, however, is that no one but Stan can hear the TV.
Personally, I blame the person who invented the dentist drill for this.
Instead of inventing one that plays something soothing like Handel’s
Water Music, the dude actually invented a tool that makes a high-pitched
WHEEEE sound. It sounds just like a forty-pound mosquito aiming to suck
my brain stem right out through my tonsils. This, I suspect, is why some
people immediately seize up and wet themselves the moment the drill is
turned on.
My dentist uses drilling time to tell me details about her family.
“My daughter is at USF,” she says. “Last night she pulled an all-nighter
studying for a Biology test. I told her…”
WHEEEEEEEE
She goes on, but I can’t hear a thing she’s saying. I would try to lip
read, but modern dentists also cover their faces to avoid communicable
diseases and lip reading.
Despite not feeling anything from the drill, my body is tense, as rigid
as a board. Why? Because I’m expecting to feel something terrible any
moment. I try to relax by imagining the important things the dentist is
telling me but I can’t hear. “Did I tell you my daughter’s dating the
entire USF football team? Yes. It’s true. The whole dang shebang. Even
the trainers. You know, those geeks who chase after players to tape
their ankles?”
It doesn’t work. I lie there like plywood, my mind repeating the calming
mantra it's locked onto: Make It Stop! Make It Stop!
She pauses to change drill bits. She’s got to be close to striking oil
reserves that would make even the Saudis jealous.
“A solicitor came in here the other day," she says. "I usually don't buy
anything from solicitors, but he was such a nice old man." The gurgly
thing goes mad for a brief moment before settling down. "So I bought my
daughter a stun gun to carry around campus.” The dentist's eyes show
momentary disdain above her surgical mask. “My husband thinks she needs
a concealed weapons permit to carry it.”
WHEEEEEEE
She dives back into my mouth. It sounds like Stan is suggesting she buy
her daughter a pair of nunchucks instead, but I can’t be sure. The new
drill bit is causing my entire head to vibrate and my vision to blur. I
can’t hear. I can’t even think. Death or actually hearing Jerry Springer
is becoming preferable to this madness.
“There,” she says, “We’re almost done. Not too bad, huh?”
She puts three metal utility poles in mouth, twists their ends, and
slams some silver into my gaping craw. She scrapes away the excess as
Stan vacuums the inside of my mouth.
“There you go!” she says. “Next week, only three more!”
I stagger out to pay. It’s Friday. The assistant at the desk is in a
jovial mood.
“Well,” she says, “I see you’re paying for her daughter’s college
semester this month.” She laughs lightly. “That will be $390.”
“Wow!” I said, handing her my credit card. “Now she can upgrade to a
handgun.”
She gives me a long, strange look.
We're both glad I leave.
For additional insanity, check out Barrett’s blog at
http://writercgbarrett.blogspot.com/.
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