Dentists don’t have an easy job. I can’t imagine entering a career where my clients fear or resent me. Then there is the job itself. How many hours per day do you want to poke and scrape at people’s teeth while their tongues wag at you?
I always thought I took pretty good care of my teeth. However, my long history of braces, root canals, crowns etc. is pretty bad. My mother in law would say, “If you aren’t feeling well, you need a new toothbrush. You have a new toothbrush? You should have kept the old one.”
The typical healthy adult human mouth has roughly 32 teeth in it, minus the wisdom teeth, which generally get removed so as to avoid your mouth looking like a multi-car pile up on a foggy highway. If you had braces your dentist probably removed one or two to give him (or herself) more elbow room.
I lost count of the number of root canals I’ve had in my life. But counting redos I suspect I am approaching the maximum legal limit. (Yes, Grasshopper, there are ‘redos’ in the world of root canals. One would think once was enough. This isn’t golf after all.) Suffice to say I’ve had so many x-rays, when I turn out the lights, my head glows like Reddy Kilowatt.
I have so much metal in my mouth it is a wonder I can get through airport security. As a result, one environmental group is suing to declare my mouth a toxic waste dump. A mining company is working to stake a claim for extraction rights (which I’m not quite ready to surrender. Make me an offer.) And a third entity wants to bestow national park status on my mouth as a natural wonder.
Due to numerous moves around the country, the list of my former dentists now exceeds the number of laborers who worked on Mount Rushmore. That number will soon increase and there is a waiting list. I should start charging a toll.
I am tempted to compare my experience with dentists to that of the unfortunate character played by Dustin Hoffman in the movie “Marathon Man” but that would be unfair to but a few. I have known many fine dentists and cannot subscribe to the idea that they are sadists in lab coats. Many relieved me of considerable pain. I suspect several are frustrated sculptors yearning to work on a grander scale.
One however, seemed more concerned with securing the next payment for his Bentley than for enhancing my gleaming smile. He always greeted me by urgently lobbying to replace a perfectly good bridge. But getting him to attend to the immediate pain in my jaw was like pulling teeth. After another worked on me, I awoke feeling like he’d used a wrecking ball and a chisel on my jaw. No jackhammers though.
I once had a dental hygienist who insisted on singing along with the Muzak featuring a Barry Manilow song as she probed my molars and I gazed up her nostrils. How romantic! Had I known the words we could have had quite the duet.
One dentist was hilarious (just what you want in a dentist). After trussing me up with a multitude of metal appliances and ensuring I couldn’t move, close my mouth or respond with more than a gurgle, he performed a stand-up routine of funny jokes. Talk about timing. I felt like Malcolm MacDowell in “A Clockwork Orange” only instead of Beethoven’s Ninth, I was subjected to his version of Henny Youngman one liners.
Once, after getting a gold crown glued on, I fixed myself lunch and inadvertently swallowed the crown when it unexpectedly came loose. I spent the next week literally panning for gold. Losing that would definitely have been a high stakes royal flush.
Years later, I needed to replace the gold crown (yes, that gold crown). That dentist protested when I wanted to keep the scrapped gold for myself. After all, I paid dearly for it, in many ways.
Excuse me. I need to go buy a new tooth brush.