Tooth and consequences
“You’re going to need a few new crowns.” His spelunking light blinds me as he delivers the fabulous news.
“I know, right? I’ve been telling my ex that for years,” my shaky retort.
The dentist barely conceals an eye roll. My comedic defense thuds to the floor like the heavy lead apron they unceremoniously tossed onto me moments prior. I’m so nervous I can hardly sit still, one step from bolting from the chair. Four crowns? On top of the three I got last year? Apparently my dentist has been bingeing Bridgerton.
I am absolutely petrified of the dentist. My pediatric dentist treated my mouth like an ATM. Every appointment uncovered a fresh abomination that required another silver amalgam until my teeth looked like they were regulars at Studio 54. The memory of him telling my mother I needed 13 cavities filled at one appointment is forever tattooed on my cerebellum. Thirteen in six months since my last cleaning? I’m not sure I even had 13 viable teeth at that stage of baby-tooth turnover. Every novocaine drenched visit left me with chewed up cheeks and weeks of lectures about my pathetic excuse for hygiene - as if I smoked crystal meth at the tetherball court during recess.
I have always taken every possible preventative cavity measure: toothbrushes, floss, Waterpiks, fluoride treatments, mouthwash - you name it, I own it. Before each appointment I pray for a hygienist who didn’t attend the Marquis de Sade Dental Academy, but the blaring yacht rock music in the rooms seems to block out my begging. Every dental ritual begins the same: very sharp instruments are slammed into my teeth and gums, then the hygienist/Mafia enforcer informs me that my extensive cleaning routine sucks. Next, the dentist storms in long enough to tell me what needs to be hacked out because I am not worthy of having things like my own teeth.
I’ve concluded that people who love going to the dentist are sociopaths, because every time I sit in the torture chair, I shake so badly the hygienist not-so-gently suggests Valium for the next time they cram their hands into my mouth - which is generally in 2-3 month intervals..
I’ve lived in eight states and two countries, which means I’ve rotated through more dentists than most people have had oil changes. Each new DMD seems to uncover some new fresh hell that comes with a sizable out-of-pocket expense, and I can’t help wondering how much of it is elective. As in, they’re electing to reduce me to a puddle of self-loathing and fear under a blinding light - dental/black-ops operative, armed with a high-speed drill and a tray of stainless-steel instruments built for extracting classified information. At that point, I’m ready to confess to knowing who shot JFK, where the Ark of the Covenant is stored and the precise location of Amelia Earhart’s carry-on luggage.
My revolving cast of dentists never lacks an opinion. One insisted I needed a $2,500 deep cleaning - out of pocket, of course. A second opinion (a week later) asked how long I’d had TMJ described how I needed braces, with no mention of the “urgent” deep cleaning, but somehow overlooked my completely straight teeth. Another insisted on a custom-designed $1,000 night guard, which insurance didn’t cover and, notably, contained no diamonds or fancy lettering. I’m convinced they burn the midnight oil inventing innocuous-sounding dental jargon that doubles as a billing strategy.
“2,3,2,” is “this girl clearly thinks she is funny with that stupid crown comment - which she is not. Make sure you scrape extra hard with that super pokey thing* and make her gums bleed. Then tell her she isn’t flossing enough while she spits blood in that tiny urinal/bowl.”
“You probably want an oral cancer screening” translates to, “This will cost you an extra $50 OOP so I can look at your mouth the same way, only this time with my oncology eyeball instead of my dental one.”
“Look at the distal of #19” means “Lots of fillings - DARN IT. Someone has already tapped into that revenue stream. Find a few “new” reasons to bring her back. And judging by the trembling, she clearly has dental PTSD. Excellent — she’ll say yes before I even finish the treatment plan estimate.
“We’ll want to watch that buccal margin,” actually means “Our revenue margins need help. Tell her she needs a root canal and a highly expensive replacement crown that her insurance will only cover $2.37 of. Then we will laugh in the back while doing whip-its with nitrous oxide. Oh, and tell her we don’t use gas at this place - don’t want to waste it on this scumbag who clearly doesn’t care for her teeth properly. Probably raised by wolves by the looks of things.”
And yet, despite the dread, the drills and the grocery list of “estimated patient responsibility charges,” I will be back in six months. I will floss with the intensity of someone trying to erase a criminal record. I will lie under the blinding light and again pray for the “Everything looks good” unicorn, triggering a level of euphoria usually reserved for lottery winners and people who successfully parallel park on the first try.
*“super pokey thing” — clearly the highly technical term they covered sometime after Advanced Drill Theory and before Billing Codes 401.
Tracy Winslow is the owner of Low Country Shrimp and Knits, a premier fiber arts shop in the Low Country. When she isn’t fabricating state secrets to survive the torture chair, she’s getting people excited about creating with fiber through knitting and crochet, plus beginner-friendly classes in needle felting, yarn art and more. It’s dinner and a show, minus the four-course meal. Grab a friend and book your next girls night out at www.shrimpandknits.com.
