Another Visit to the Dentist

This set is for sale in Lancaster. Soon I'll be able to perform
all my own dentistry at home!

This morning I woke up, as I usually do. I made some coffee, drank it. And then, because I was feeling a little wild, I decided to make another cup. I downed the dregs of my first but instantly recoiled from a sharp pain in my back molar.

"No," I whispered. "The cavity -- she is here." I ran to the bathroom mirror and, peering into my gaping maw, spotted a dark pinprick of a hole in my tooth. "So you're here at last. I've been expecting you."

 I called up my dentist's office and explained the situation. "I'm leaving for my honeymoon on Saturday," I said, trying to keep the edge of panic from my voice. "Is there anything you can possibly do--?"

COME ON IN TODAY, said the Very Helpful Receptionist. YOU HAVE ONE HOUR. BE THERE.

"Your tone changed rapidly," I said. "This is a roller coaster."

I quickly dressed, brushed my teeth, and sped on over to the dentist. At this point, I was forty minutes early for my appointment, so I sat in the car and fretted for thirty-eight of those minutes. Then I went inside, let them know I was there, used the bathroom, sat down, and then fretted some more because I couldn't remember if I flushed. Really, what do you do in that situation? It's not like you can sneak back in there without anyone else in the waiting room noticing and wondering what's up with yer finnicky bowels. You can't lean over and ask someone if they heard you flush or not. All you can do is sit in agony and hope to escape to the sweet relief of a woman scraping plaque off your teeth with a sharp instrument before somebody else goes in to use the bathroom --

"Carrie?" It wasn't my usual hygienist. But it was my usual name.

"THAT'S ME." I jumped up, nearly spilling everything out of my bag, and followed her down a hall and to the right. We traveled far into the depths of the building. I usually go through a little door to the left and two doors down, so this new route plus the new hygienist had me on edge.

The room she finally ushered me into appeared at first like any other exam room in the building: a window looking out on the business park next door, a framed picture of an iris (Flower, not eye. That would be weird). Chair. Spit sink. X-ray pictures of my teeth. It feels vaguely intrusive, having the insides of my teeth on display for anyone walking by. So intimate.

"I know you, child," they can say now. "I've seen what's in your teeth."

That's gross. Sorry. I was nervous.

The hygienist asked me a few questions and then left me alone with my thoughts. Which is never what you want, especially in a dentist's office. It gave me a chance to really look around at all the plastic devices from probably-the-'20s, faded yellow-brown with age and sporting names like Drill-o-Matic 5000.

"Are these just here for display?" I said. "Or do they mean to use them on my mouth?" But nobody answered. Because I was alone in the room. For ten minutes. The panic mounted.

Finally the hygienist came back. "The doctor will be with you in just a moment. For now I'm just going to take some X-rays, see what's going on in there."

The one part I like about going to the dentist is when they lay the lead apron on me before the pictures. The cool weight of it is comforting. It's the closest I can get in my adult life to being swaddled. Sometimes when I first wake up in the morning, all snuggled up under the blankets safe and cozy and warm with the smell of freshly brewed coffee on the cold air, I think, "You know the only thing that could make this cozier? The knowledge that my organs are protected from the damaging rays of X by a layer of lead."

Of course, the comfort of the apron was tempered a little by the extreme discomfort of the gag-inducing film apparatus they wrangled into my too-small mouth. But overall it was okay, because when the hygienist left again I got to pass the time by looking at pictures of the inside of my teeth and think, "What if they found something...else in there? Like a tiny person who's made a little home in my tooth?"  By the time the hygienist returned, I'd worked out a whole backstory for the little tooth person. I was going to tell her all about it, but who are we kidding, no I was not.

"So, the doctor will be right in," she said. YEAH, I'VE HEARD THAT ONE BEFORE, KELLEY-WITH-AN-E-Y. "I'm just going to do a quick test. Since you say it's affected by heat and cold, it could be something more serious."

Her examination consisted of two tests. First, she sprayed a freezing agent on the end of a Q-tip and rubbed it all over the back few molars. Did I scream? I am proud to say I did not, despite the excruciating pain from parts of my teeth I didn't know could feel any sensation at all. Did I let out a noise like a slide whistle played very slowly yet with a sharp crescendo? Why, yes.

"This is just to make sure that the nerves are still working," she said.

KELLEY. I CAN ASSURE YOU THEY ARE WORKING.

For the second round of torture, she picked up the air shooter thingy. You know when you drink ice-cold water or you smile into a winter wind, and it's like brain freeze on your front teeth? Well, imagine a concentrated version of that feeling, right where your gums have receded so that all that's left are the soft, uber-sensitive roots. I am not proud to say that this time, I did scream. But just a little bit. More like a yelp. And maybe I kicked a little.

"Easy there, girl," she murmured. "Alright. The doctor will be in to see you in just a moment."

I don't care how long he takes. Just go away. Go now and leave me alone. She left me huddled on the chair, the entire left side of my face pulsating in pain. "Could you bring back the lead apron? Please?" I bleated. But nobody heard.

I don't know how long I stayed like that. When I opened my eyes, the dentist came bustling in like Chris Tucker in The Fifth Element. "What's going on, Carrie?" he said. "There's nothing on your X-rays. I see nothing here! So WHAT is the problem, young lady? Why are you here?"

"Well -- it's -- this morning I saw a hole in my back molar. And it's been sensitive to cold and heat, so I just thought I'd get it checked out --"

"A hole?" he repeated, with his eye brows raised, exactly the way a mean middle school girl would try to undermine and mock you. "A hole?"

FREAKIN -- YES, A HOLE. A HOLE IN MY TOOTH. YOU'RE A DENTIST. WHY IS THIS SO HARD FOR YOU TO UNDERSTAND?! 

"Yeah," I said. "A hole. Well -- I mean, it looked like one, so I just thought --"

"That's just a sealant that's come out," he said. "Why are you wasting my time with this pedestrian nonsense?" he didn't say. But his eyes did.

Another lady came in to put the new sealant in and apply the medicine. She was kind to me. Spoke to me softly as she drilled the sealant down. Told me she just had a sealant replaced, too (You're just like me! I thought. We're the same!), and that it felt like she had a shoe on her tooth for a few days (You're so strange! Are we best friends now?!). Then she smeared some kind of angel goop on my sensitive roots. And I felt no pain.

"That feels so much better. Thank you." I love you. 

"You're all done. Looks like you're due for your six-month cleaning in two weeks," she said. "Enjoy your honeymoon!"

I never even learned her name.