When I was a child, the dentist’s office was a strange place that poked you with needles, said “everything will be OK,” and then filled your head full of shrapnel that we now know causes global warming.
You weren’t worried about losing teeth, since this was a major source of kid-income. The tooth fairy, a cash-and-carry gal, would leave a silver dollar under my pillow for the teeth that Grandma pried out.
Ah, but how times have changed. Now, the dentist is a place to go to help you learn about the latest advances in molar technology, and trust me there are always huge advances between each visit, especially if your last check-up was back when Jimmy Carter was president. There’s a vast array of choices to remove decaying currency from your wallet before you do something foolish and harmful to your dorsal-lingual retainers, like buying food.
The sad fact is that secrets of proper dental care are not entrusted to children. This epiphany came just after I turned 30, and a deeply-disappointed technician said that I could expect all my teeth to fall out in the next five minutes or so. This came as quite a shock. After all, my parents had told me throughout my childhood that if brushed twice a day, I was good to go. Not that I did this, mind you, but I thought as long as I believed it, and agreed with the dentist each visit, then I’d get a pass much in the way you clear customs by lying through your teeth.
But once you become an adult, then you’re told that you’d better start flossing. Actually, you’re told that you should have been flossing for the past 40 years, and that you can expect to suffer unspeakable pain for your lack of proper care. Once you see the bill it will make your teeth ache.
I had my reasons for avoiding the dentist. I had scientific evidence based on years of TV commercials which stated quite clearly that sugar-free gum would help fight tooth decay. That was good enough for me, and then there was the trauma of having my wisdom teeth yanked and spending a week looking like Alvin the Chipmunk. Not to mention that, as an adult, I had to pay the tab. But, finally, the day came when I grew up, got serious, extracted insurance coverage from my employer, and started a long-term relationship with the people in white lab coats.
I’m happy to report I have a whole dental-services-team trying to resuscitate my bicuspids. In fact, my dentist has more people working for her than now work for General Motors. There’s my dentist, of course, and we’ll talk more about this amazing woman in a moment, but we must also recognize the unsung heroes who labor down in plaque-filled trenches each day, fighting a never-ending battle against gingivitis.
I’m referring, or course, to the hygienists. One of the most tactful people in the world is the hygienist who makes the appointment to clean my teeth. Then, of course, there is the other hygienist who actually does the scraping because hygienist #1 is always unavailable when my appointment comes up. Hygienist #2 assures me that it has nothing to do with me accidental trying to bite hygienist #1 after she accidentally tried to jab me during an accidental dental procedure. Aside from this, I really feel sorry for my hygienist. Each time, she coaches me on how to floss better, and how to properly use the electric toothbrush, water pick and special anti-plaque mouthwash. I’ve found this regimen surprisingly easy. Really. I do it first thing in the morning, and then it’s time to go back to bed.
Next, of course, is technology-man. He’s the guy who maintains their state-of-the-art computer-controlled water pick and Shop Vac and the electronic wall art that looks suspiciously like X-Rays.
Another key member of the team is the accountant, Mike, whose job it is to look concerned and tell me the ‘procedure’ I most need is probably not going to be covered by the insurance. Procedures are not as frightening than surgery, but no less expensive. Mike conveys this to me while I’m under partial anesthesia. He’s thorough. Mike always calls insurance to double-check just as I pull into the parking lot, and they always call him back when I’m too happy to care. He’s encouraging, telling me not to worry, that it may be “covered under another code,” such as a sex-change operation. According to my records, I’m the first person to have 12 such procedures. This could explain why I like to read Popular Science while watching a Chick Flicks.
And then there’s the receptionist, who has the both the most unpleasant AND most difficult jobs of all. She has to see me twice. First, when I enter, she’s the one who hands me a stack of “updated forms.” Apparently this is cheaper than having a stack of tattered magazines. It’s certainly more entertaining. I complain. I snarl. I fume. But it does no good. She nods sympathetically, and then shrugs. Apparently, my dentist’s staff, or extended family, has a cadre of attorneys who specialize in dental disclosures. I complete all these forms without the assistance of painkillers.
I also see the receptionist on my way out. I’m happier, but now she’s tasked with the most difficult job in the entire operation, one that takes more skill and finesse than anything else in the medical profession – to make sure I show up next time when I’m supposed to. She hands me a reminder card with a detachable molar-sticker, but that’s only the start. From there, her behavior entails what, in other circumstances, would be considered stalking. I get reminders via snail mail, texts, email, and even a chipper phone call. I’m convinced they saved part of my anesthesia for her.
But it really all comes down to my respect, which is to say fear, of my dentist. Most of what we think about dentists is unfair and unkind. They’re not in the back room, looking at your X-Rays, while studying a Mercedes-Benz flyer. This would be unprofessional, and that’s so ‘90s. What they’re doing now is looking at your financial statement and drooling over a Bass-Boat catalog.
But despite all the changes, I still have to wonder what they do with all the teeth they pull. They won’t give them to you. I know, because I’ve asked. They’re considered “biohazards.” The teeth, not the dentists. Still, I’d like to have mine back, as they drop out, one-at-a-time. With what I have invested in them, I expect to look under my pillow and find a BMW.
Robb has enjoyed writing and performing since he was a child, and many of his earliest performances earned him a special recognition-reserved seating in the principal’s office at Highland Elementary. Since then, in addition to his weekly column on A News Cafe – “Or So it Seems™” – Robb has written news and features for The Bakersfield Californian, appeared on stage as an opening stand-up act in Reno, and his writing has been published in the Funny Times. His short stories have won honorable mention national competition. His screenplay, “One Little Indian,” Was a top-ten finalist in the Writer’s Digest competition. Robb presently lives, writes and teaches in Shasta County.
