We have dentist appointments Thursday and so I have been flossing assiduously. It's not that I don't floss normally - I mean, I'm not an ANIMAL - but I'm definitely what you would call a prefunctory flosser.
My dentist's office has been calling every 3-4 weeks for over a year now to remind me that it's time to come in for a check-up. I have been dodging their calls like it's aliens calling to schedule an anal probe. The desk staff at the dentist's are all 12 years old and yet, their calls intimidate me. But I finally relented when they left the following plaintive message: "Hi, Roro. It's Shelley calling from the dentist's office. We were just wondering . . . if you're ever coming back?"
The thing is, I like my dentist. He's a relaxed, funny, soft-spoken man who loves The Simpsons and keeps pictures of his kids at each chair in the clinic, so that you can get a good view of who you're sending to college. I started going to him 5 years ago when one of my wisdom teeth said "Fuck sagacity! I wanna see some STOMACH!" and disintegrated.
I was drinking some tea and suddenly, the tea was crunchy in a way that tea should never be. Naturally, I spat out the gritty tea and stared at the little cement-like chunks in my cup. As I drew breath, I suddenly felt the wind hit my back toothal area. It felt empty back there. Too empty. So later that day I walked to the dental clinic. "I need to see the dentist," I said, "I think I ate one of my back teeth." They had me in the chair in under a minute.
After checking out the situation, Dr. Arre said "Well, Roro. It seems like you've eaten half of your wisdom tooth. The grey stuff was probably the filling, although I don't know who would put a filling in a wisdom tooth." I thought wistfully of my Edmonton dentist, Dr. Doch, who'd told me I didn't to have my wisdom teeth out. "You should have your wisdom teeth out," Dr. Arre said, "All of them and the sooner the better. Also, you have quite a few cavities here. I'm guessing around ten. Do you have insurance?"
Do I have insurance? Is dog shit my favourite snack?
Not only did I not have insurance, I didn't have a JOB. I was working on a project and living off meagre grant money and my savings at that point. I didn't cry in the dentist's chair, because I didn't want to short out the electric cleaning apparatus in my mouth, but he saw the panic in my eyes and he patted my shoulder comfortingly. "No, huh? Okay, okay, don't worry. We'll work something out. We have payment plans. We'll take care of you and fix this all up. Okay?" THAT'S when I cried. Just a little.
My parents very kindly offered to pay for the wisdom tooth surgery, which was a huge relief. I filled my precriptions for Tylenol 3 and anti-biotics, cursing Dr. Arre for not also prescribing Ativan, which my lucky brother had when he got HIS wisdom teeth out a few months. There would be no sleeping through the surgery and no laughing gas. Just me, the local anesthetic, my four impacted wisdom teeth and Dr. Arre's foot on my face, which he needed for leverage as he wrestled with the shards of the disintegrated tooth. I have vague memories of him struggling with that last, stubborn tooth and saying things like: "Geez, Roro, are you okay? I don't know what to tell you, it's just so deep in there and I can't seem to get a grip on OH MY GOD, SUCTION!! SUCTION!! Man. Are you okay? Why are you laughing? Okay, I'm going to try it again."
By the time the foot was on my face I was laughing helplessly at the absurdity of the whole situation. "Why . . . are . . . you . . . LAUGHING?" grunted Dr. Arre, as he yanked vigorously on my tooth, the hygienist blotting the sweat from his brow. This only made me laugh harder. When it was all over and my mouth was a mass of bloody cotton batting, he told me he was giving me a discount for being such a good sport. And he did.
After the surgery, I went in to see Dr. Arre about once a week for nearly two months while he filled the rest of my cavities. My visits to his office became part of my routine, like going to the gym or therapy. On my birthday, he filled one of my ten cavities for free. And then one day, he said "Well, we're done! Come back for a cleaning in six months or so!" and it was all over.
I'm not going to lie to you. I was relieved, but also a little bereft. When you have someone's hands in your mouth every week for two months, you start to feel like you have a bond. Like war buddies, or temps. And so when Dr. Arre declared my teeth sound and cut me loose, I didn't feel abandoned, but oddly . . . lonely. I had not, in fact, realized I WAS lonely until the prolonged emergency dental visits ceased. And realizing that not only was I LONELY but that it had taken the faux intimacy of someone's hands in my mouth - some GUY'S hands, no less - to make me recognize that I was lonely was totally fucking depressing. I sank into a funk, thinking: What if that was it for me? What if those visits represented the most intimate human contact I would ever have? What if the holes in my teeth were the ONLY cavities I'd ever have filled? If you know what I mean? And I think that you do?
Some people associate dental visits with discomfort, physical pain, unpleasant tastes, drooling, bleeding and judgment. I associate mine with the severe emotional turmoil which eventually led to me totally changing my approach to and outlook on life. So while it's nice to waltz into Dr. Arre's office these days with my insurance (which I have through Katr's work) and my fabulous girlfriend (Katr), it's also like visiting the scene of a crime or the abode of an ex. An ex who will judge you if you haven't been flossing.
