I've Died and Gone to the Dentist
I have bad dental karma....it is just one of those things.You'd never know it from my smile. Those 11 visible teeth put on quite a show to hide the craziness backstage. My chompers have been riddled with cavities from dentist one, no matter how much I ramp up my oral hygiene. I don't think I have ever NOT had at least one cavity with each check-up. Me and the drill go way back. It must be in the teeth genes. Growing up, my parents were partial...I mean, wore partials. I'm an implant man- it's a new world.
My toothy woes run deep, starting from dentist one mentioned above. Dr. Tate was our family dentist, with an office on the second floor of a converted Philly rowhouse. I'd sit patiently with my mom in the cramped waiting room, reading my Highlights magazine (I am definitely more Gallant than Goofus), until we were called inside. My memories at this point get a little cloudy. You see, Dr. Tate had to be pushing 70 or 80 when I was five years old. He was not trained in anesthesia techniques beyond taking a small break from drilling each time I squeezed his hand to signal pain. All I know is that I got to pick a few small rubber Flintstone erasers from a shoe box before I left, and that made everything ok to me. I took Dinos and Freds.
The absence of analgesia continued thorugh my childhood. In fact, I did not experience Novocaine until I was 18 years old. To this day, that stainless steel syringe stirs up more anxiety in me than any pair of extractors ever could.
I stumbled from dentist to dentist through my early adult years. Partially because I found it difficult to stay in one place for very long, but mainly because I seemed to attract bad dental experiences. I could never quite connect with these people spending time in my mouth. I didn't want to go back, and they couldn't have cared less. We parted ways.
Appointment mix-ups, botched root canals, an extraction I should have done myself. I have these things under my belt. I always moved on, leaving behind a sordid collection of receptionists and assistants.
In Fort Lauderdale, a dentist gave me gas anesthesia against my protests, and I swear to this day that through my haze I could feel him periodically stop working on the problem tooth, and inflict damage on the other side of my mouth. Every time I would open my eyes, no doubt with questioning in my expression, those instruments would scurry back to the tooth in need. I never went back there, and I lost an old filling a few weeks later.
OK. Miami. My first dentist here was bilingual, of course, but no one spoke English except at the receptionist's desk. The dentist was unable to numb the desired area, and had to administer that damn syringe four separate times. My face was numb up to my eye all that night, and the soreness in my jaw didn't go away for a week. Didn't go back.
Next dentist- recommended by my doctor, but didn't honor any insurance policies. Claims were submitted on my own, first with the PPO, and then to the Flexible Spending Account. The amount of overlapping paperwork and disputed charges were more painful than ten toothaches. Didn't go back.
Waited for the dental assistant to finish her lunch at the desk before she cleaned my teeth at the next place. The dentist rushed in and talked to me for about 2 minutes, expressing doubt that I could afford the implants that I requested. Then he left. So did I.
Needless to say, I walked into my latest appointment today with some level of trepidation, but walked out with a smile on my face. Have I reached my destination? Could this be the Year of the Tooth? I brought with me some of my usual energy. I need to spend the balance of my FSA within 2 weeks, or it will be forfeited. Dr. Alvarez, whom I immediately liked, sat me down to find a solution. He assured me that if I could get the time off work, that we would have no problem finding three thousand dollars worth of work to do in one day among my generous teeth. Now that sounds painful.
posted by Jimmy @ 9:06 PM
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