Dental Woes

The dental crisis of my life began—naturally—after my dentist of twenty-five years left town under mysterious circumstances. In a flashback—the video is of the security camera quality—I see a Mafia soldier on Dr. C.’s doorstep—he looks like a Soprano cousin who used to be a big earner, but has come down in the world—he knows his days are numbered. He’s ready to spill the beans on the Big Guy. Dr. C. is wearing a wire; he’s already signed up for The Witness Protection Program-- he will soon be treating patients in the Arizona desert.

The real story is that Dr. C.’s wife wanted to relocate to be closer to their grandchildren. I like the Mafia version better. And I’m sure the children are adorable, but I prefer to think of them as holy terrors working on their advanced degrees in Pillaging and Burning.

Not that I’m bitter, but Dr. C. was a fine fellow who got you in and out in twenty minutes; he didn’t sit up nights thinking of new ways to torture his patients.
But he had hardly left town when I began finding teeth parts in my breakfast toast. I made an appointment with a local dentist who was almost booked up after taking on many of Dr. C.’s patients—I got in just under the wire. Lucky me.

I learned I needed several fillings and a couple of crowns. I’ve never had a crown done before. I was told it would take two sessions with the first one lasting two hours. I immediately thought: “You’ll have to catch me first”.

I really didn’t care for the doctor’s bedside manner—what there was of it—either. The office was semi-dark when he came in wearing a mask. I’ll skip his name—I called him The Masked Marvel. I couldn’t see him clearly—I also couldn’t hear him mumbling through the mask.

He had an unusual technique as he lowered the chair practically to the floor before he
started his examination. The whole procedure reminded me of how auto mechanics hop on a dolly and slide under your car. I had a fear I would pass out and wake up looking at my oil pan.

I then found a more congenial dentist, a young woman who on the personality front at least had one. By this time I had lost even more teeth parts. She agreed to pull the tooth that The Masked Marvel wanted to crown, and that went like a charm.

But then I was advised I needed five fillings plus a crown. I would also be treated to not one but two cleanings, with the first one taking an hour. I was not happy. But at least you could watch television –a welcome innovation—while you were being worked over.

Although I would just get absorbed in something—say an Oprah panel on the problems of adult children who stayed in bed until noon-- when it was time for heavy drilling in which all I saw was the ceiling. Another novelty, which I didn’t care for, was a mint green fluoride cocktail, which made my stomach roll every time they served me one.

My lady dentist’s office organization also required an adjustment as she has many patients and will work on three or more at a time. I was often in the chair for over an hour—sometime so long I thought the entire dental staff had left the building. What were they doing—their Wal-Mart shopping? Taking computer classes in speed billing?

And when they came back they would add another wrinkle. They have a camera they’re particularly proud of which is used to take Polaroid pictures of the offending tooth. The camera looks large enough to have been used to film “ I Love Lucy”--it comes with a long rod, which would be about right to harpoon a whale. But they try to jam the whole thing into your mouth. Makes me long for Dr. C.’s two –count ‘em—pictures of your entire dental work.

I still have it in for Dr. C’s grandchildren. I can see them visiting their grandpa’s office. One of them is hanging from the chandelier; the other is letting the water out of the fish tank. Poor Dr. C. Serves him right.



Danny Dunne
402 Deere Run Lane
Casey, IL 62420
217:932-2136
dunne@joink.com
Word Count: 735


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