I have been reminded no less than five times to remember my Delta Dental card when I go to my first visit with my new dentist. The office called a week ago to remind me, my girlfriend reminded me verbally, then in a note, then again in an email and one more time on my cell phone as I drove to this appointment. So, of course, it goes without saying that I haven’t brought my dental plan card with me to the dentist. I realize this as I try to present his receptionist with my library card.
It is going to be one of those days.
It has been several years since I’ve been to a dentist and I’m kind of looking forward to it. I’ve never really had any problems with my teeth, so my dental visits have always had a sort of grandmotherly feel to them. The dentist would complement how strong and cavity-free my teeth were, we would exchange some very mild small-talk and he would scold me for not flossing enough. I would have to put up with some small amount of discomfort while he was actually working in my mouth, but that would be more than made up for when he went into the next room and I could fool around with his spray-jet and miniature sink.
I love the little water-pic-like spray jet. I like the three little buttons and the fact that they can direct jets of water, mouthwash or little blasts of air shooting out of the spout. I remember staring into the jet as a kid and blasting my eyeballs with the airspray. My goal was always to see if I could dislodge an eyelash, which I would blow into the sink with the air, then wash down the drain with the water. If my childhood orthodontist had stayed out of the room just a little longer, I might have achieved Olympic standards in this.
So, imagine my feelings of shock and betrayal as I find out that they don’t have the three-button jet anymore. They still have the miniature spit-sink, but instead of the water-pic, they simply have a dispenser for water and mouthwash which emits a trickle at a time without enough pressure to squirt anywhere.
Unfortunately, This is just the first in a series of unpleasant surprises. Next come the x-rays. A dental hygienist crams what feels like a small suitcase into my mouth, then sprints from the room so she won’t be around when she shoots hard radiation into my skull. I am reminded of the scene in The X-Men when Bruce Davison is turned into a mutant in a similar fashion.
If you haven’t seen a dentist in a long time, your new dentist needs to check out your gums. This is done by sliding a stainless steel probe into the pocket between each tooth and the gum surrounding it and seeing how deep he push it in. It is vitally important for him to do this, because otherwise, he wouldn’t have any idea how high your threshold for pain is.
“Aaaargh!” I say. “Aaaargh, aaaargh!”
“Hmmmm…” he says thoughtfully. “Here – take a look at this.” He holds up a mirror so I can see inside my mouth. “Your teeth are in good shape – really good shape – but I’m concerned about this.” He stabs my gums again with the probe.
I shoot backwards into the chair, gasping in pain.
“Now, see here,” Dr. Mengele says, pointing to the blood welling up from the base of my tooth. “It’s not supposed to bleed spontaneously like that.”
I try to explain that there is nothing spontaneous about someone jabbing a stainless steel probe into a person’s gums, but his fingers are in my mouth and all that comes out is a muffled, gurgling sound.
He takes my strangled gasps as a sign of agreement and continues with his work, humming a little under his breath. A year or so later, he finishes his work and sets me up for another appointment to clean out the unhealthy areas of my gums.
“Don’t worry,” he tells me. “Anesthesia has come a long way in the past few years.” This strikes me as a good news / bad news sort of message.
On my way out of the office, the receptionist smiles blandly and asks if I’d like to renew any books.
