The Root of the Problem

A visit to the dentist/humor

As a young child, I was a dentist’s nightmare. Gagging, thrashing, choking on drilled dental dust. My mother coached me: Hold still. Relax. Breathe through your nose. How we all suffered: Mama, Dr. S and me.

         In my teenage years, I reined in my anxiety and allowed the demonic Dr. S to have his way with my fragile teeth. Until the day Mama gave me money for my dental account and nudged me toward the bus for my appointment. With no parental supervision, I pocketed the money, blew off the dentist, and spent the cash on a new album at Music Market. Ma and Dad made my day more hellish than the dentist when I returned home with Janis Joplin’s Pearl.

         Now in my older years, dental visits don’t faze me. I’ve endured root canals, implants, extractions, and midlife orthodontics. I felt well prepared for my appointment on Wednesday.

         My new dentist (I’ll call Dr. H) is awfully young. And handsome. He points to the fracture on the X-ray.

         “See how it runs straight across? It’s under the gum line. I’ll have to extract the tooth and we can make an implant for you.”
         “Just take out the tooth,” I urge. “No implant. I don’t want anything that close to my sinus. Look, here’s the CT scan I had last year. See? No hardware up there; that’s where I get sinus infections.”
         “Of course, whatever you want, Liz. But your other teeth will drift and your bite will be impaired.”
         “Please, extraction only. Okay?”
         “You’ll need a bone graft too.”
         “Yes, fine. But no implant.”

         Dr. H peers into my eyes and I begin to melt. He is a fine-looking lad. Good thing I’m not having general anesthesia. I’d probably hit on this kid, and he’s young enough to be my grandson. He’s telling me something about removing the tooth in pieces. I nod. Just get the damn thing out and send me on my way.

         The dental Doogie Howser suits up and pulls on his gloves. Looks like he’s ready for a hazmat situation. I envision a geyser of blood spewing from my mouth. His fresh-faced assistant looks like she’s on high school break. She smiles encouragingly. I give her thumbs-up.

         Good god, I have Barbie and Ken about to perform oral surgery.

         Dr. H asks Barbie Doll to tie a bib around my neck. Clearly, this is her first rodeo. He prompts her for every syringe, sponge and instrument. “No, not that one, the other.” He injects three shots of local anesthesia. I’m close to drooling, but not from his countenance.

         My dentist provides a play by play as he taps, pries, and pulls. “Okay, Liz, I got the first part. How are you doing? Okay?”
         I nod. “I’m okay, how are you doing?”
         “Oh, fine. Now this next part will take longer. The root may come out in fragments. You’ll feel some pressure and will probably hear grinding.” He wipes his sweaty brow and turns to change his mask. “Barbie, pass me another pair of gloves.” Great, the poor bastard is sweating through his gloves. Either that or they’re slick with blood. I resolve not to look.

         “Now Barbie, get ready,” orders her boss. “You have to catch each piece as it comes out. Can you do that?”

         Maybe I should look into noise canceling headphones.

         I silently sing church songs in my head. Our father, who art in heaven…This little light of mine…Swing low, sweet chariot…

         “It’s out, Liz. Went more smoothly than anticipated.” I nod, giving a semi smile through my numb face.
         “Now it’s time for the bone graft. Are you sure you don’t want the implant?”
         I hold out my hand. “Pass me the mirror.” Dr. H complies. I study my lopsided grin. “It’s fine. Can hardly see the gap. No implant.”

         He persists. “Okay. We will use the bovine bone. If you think you’d like the implant, we’ll use cadaver. It’s more expensive though.”
         “How much more expensive?”
         He runs the numbers. “Around five hundred dollars.”
         “No thanks.”

         He stuffs the bovine bone graft into my gaping socket.

         Dr. H gets Barbie Doll’s attention. “Get the sutures ready, please. No, not that one, the other. Yes, that’s it.” He commences to sew, tug here, clip there, ties a knot and steps back to admire his handiwork.

         “You’re pretty good with needle and thread,” I mumble. “Did you take Home Ec in high school?”
         Barbie giggles. Dr. H looks alarmed. It’s so easy to startle this guy. He must have taken me seriously.
         My dentist regains his composure and pats my shoulder. “All done. You did great,” he tells me.

         I treat him to a crooked smile. “Thanks. So did you.”