Long time readers of this space know of my strained relationship with the dental sciences. In September of 2016 I wrote a series of four posts on the subject, which many of you found hilarious although I was not trying to be funny! As it turns out that was my last visit—until a couple weeks ago. Why did I go back? Did I have a toothache? Was I experiencing mouth pain of any kind? NO. What I was experiencing was guilt. What kind of grown man doesn’t go to the dentist for ten years in a row? Although I brush and floss every single day like I’m supposed to, going to the dentist at least once a year for a proper cleaning is universally understood to be a best practice. So, there I was at the dentist’s office for my once a decade cleaning, sweating like a whore in church.
“Oh, I see that it’s been ten years since we got x-rays,” the hygienist mentioned gleefully.
Next thing I know she’s shoving something huge in my mouth and asking me to try to be still. It was a big ask. My inaugural dental experience happened on the campus of New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary when I was seven years old. It involved dental students, the kind of experience that provided a lifetime worth of trauma, and made the administration of nitrous oxide an absolute must for any future dental procedure, even simple cleanings. Dentistry remains the one great exception of my life. I have always been a person who lacks a proper level of fear. It used to drive my mother crazy. I would do dangerous things all the time without a proper appreciation of the risks. Very few things scare me which is not a function of excess bravery as much as it is an oversupply of stupidity. But when it comes to the prospect of strapping myself into a dentist chair for an hour I am transformed into a whimpering coward. So, a couple weeks ago I was kinda proud of myself for taking the step to revisit the sights, smells and emotional torture of the dental professionals at Inspired Smiles.
I knew full well what the results would be of allowing new X-rays to be taken. Ten years of neglect would reveal itself in the form of a suggestion that I come back in two weeks for a “consultation only visit” whereby the full extent of the damage would be discussed and a “game plan of action” would be offered. That meeting was yesterday. Because I am famous for forgetting every single word a doctor/dentist says to me as soon as I get in my car to drive home—Pam came with me. As we were guided up a flight of stairs to our palatial consultation appointment room I told her that it reminded me of all the times I was called to the principal’s office back in school.
The room was tastefully decorated and strangely calming and the first thought that went through my head when I sat down on the soft and comfortable sofa was, “Damn, I bet you’ve got to pull a boatload of teeth to pay for a room like this!”
The news wasn’t all bad. There would be no “extractions” in my “game plan of action.” But I would need some crowns and several fillings, and since my dental back story was so troubled, sedation would be employed. As the competent and compassionate professionals explained everything to me I began making mental calculations—how much is this gonna set me back?
I don’t have dental insurance…and never have had dental insurance. Medicare doesn’t cover dental, so I knew this was coming out of my pocket. So, I started to add up stuff in my head. A figure came to mind. When the final number was announced it was exactly double—this was going to be a five figure “game plan of action”, which I suppose if you divided it by the ten years I boycotted Inspired Smiles, is about what going to the dentist every six months would have cost. But this way I would only be terrorized once instead of twice a year for ten years.
It seems like a good bargain to me.
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