It’s time to finally deal with my dental issues.  Though I’ve been negligent, I do like my teeth¾if my body goes to hell, my mouth will surely go to heaven.  My teeth have held up through cigarettes on and off, never complaining as the landlord paints them yellow.  They’ve had little regular preventative maintenance over the years, getting only emergency repairs.  Visiting a dentist, for me, is like hiring someone to clean up a meth lab. 

I arrive in the dental clinic waiting room at 7:30 a.m. and start filling out paperwork.  I haven’t checked, but I doubt my work-provided AAA benefit will cover this visit.  I’ve chosen the early hour appointment so that, in the event of needles or drilling, I’ll be as tired and confused as possible.   I’m the only one present, apart from two receptionists perched quietly behind computers at a console in the front of the room.  This is my first time at this clinic, so I need to provide my personal information.  When I come to the line for “Occupation” I pause, think for a second, and write down “Chippendale dancer.”

I finish the form and hand it to the receptionist.  Waiting while my information is reviewed, it occurs to me that dentists must tire of people who view their visit as just another task to grind through.  You know they’re well aware that no one wakes up, looks at their daily planner, and says, “Cool! I’ve got a dental appointment today!”  So it’s up to me to change this, to make it fun for everyone.  You can show up late and stink up the bathroom before leaving, but you don’t want to be the client the dentist dreads.

One of the receptionists calls out my name.  As the sole person in the room I want to remain silent and glance around as if it’s not me.  But I get up, follow a hygienist into a sterile white room and drop into a chair.  Moments later the dentist, a middle-aged woman with incredibly black eyes, enters the room.  She stands next to my chair clutching a clipboard. 

“Hello, Thomas,” she mumbles, sounding tired.

“Morning!” I respond cheerily.

The dentist looks at her notes. “So, let’s see, you’re a...dancer.” A very diplomatic move on her part.

“Just kidding,” I say.  “Actually, I’m a professional floss tester.”

The dentist grabs a scary metal tool and invades my mouth.  As she starts the exam my arms tighten and my hands become fists, my usual involuntary response in the chair.  She probes deep into the back of my mouth, the region of maximum neglect, and I can’t help but admire her courage.  I jump slightly when she hits a tooth on the left side.

“Sensitive?” she asks.  I nod.

After a few minutes she removes her hands and reports the damage.  I’ll need to do something about the deteriorating tooth.  That damn thing is like a pothole, getting refilled every couple of years.  I get off pretty easily, much better than I’d expected, needing just a crown, a substantial cleaning, and a mouth guard to prevent more grinding.  My arms and hands relax.  Any time you visit the dentist and don’t hear the words “root canal” you’ve won.

When the dentist leaves, the hygienist takes over.  She mixes up a bunch of pink goo in a metal bowl and spreads it thick on a metal mouth guard.  Standing behind my chair, she reaches around my head and slides the torture device into my mouth, pulling my lips down over the edges.  After adjusting her position for balance, she yanks upward forcefully, using both fists.  Straining my head downward against her hands, I feel like a championship wrestler who is losing badly.

* * * *

 A week later I’m sitting in the dentist’s office waiting room again.  A woman calls out my name and ushers me down a hallway to a small white room.  My hygienist is the same perky woman in her fifties I wrestled with last time.  As we enter the room I mention that I’ve been impressed with the positive, friendly interactions I’ve had with people at Kaiser.  She tells me that the company does a lot of research into ways to keep employees satisfied.  Imagine that. 

 As I sit in the chair, she jokes that I’ll be getting a “deep cleaning” today. Looking down at her clipboard she informs me that she’ll be numbing my mouth with a shot before starting.  Damn.  You know there’s a lot of hidden crap that needs to be mined from your mouth if you’re getting needled for a cleaning.

The hygienist sits on a stool next to me and begins to move tools around on her tray.  As she pulls on a green latex glove I think back to Dr. Luby, our first family dentist.  This was way before gloves were standard equipment, and Dr. Luby was a smoker.  He’d stub out his cigarette and scrub his hands vigorously in a sink before starting in on you.  But the washing never fully worked, and you’d smell a nasty, stale odor as he slid his fingers under your nose and into your mouth.  The last I heard of Dr Luby, he’d built an airplane in his garage but then realized he had no way of getting it through the doors.

My hygienist finishes preparing, grabs a needle, and enters my mouth.  Skillfully, with very little pain on my part, she administers the shot.  After removing the needle she turns back to her desk, doing paperwork and waiting for the drug to kick in.

The right half of my face is completely numb when she swivels back to me. “How’re you doing, Thomas?” she asks.

I turn my head and look up at her.   “Well,” I reply, with only the left half of my mouth moving, “I think I’ve had a stroke.”

The hygienist scours my teeth for the next half-hour, using a metal tool with a sharp, pointed hook.  She’s assertive in her grinding, but also very careful, which is comforting.  She digs in hard on the back teeth, the ones I never get to, and the noise coming from my mouth sounds like someone scraping paint off a house.

 She finishes and hands me a paper cup with water, instructing me to rinse.  I swirl the water around in my mouth and spit it out while she grabs a thin suction hose.   “You had quite a bit of stuff in there,” she says as she puts the hose in my mouth. I take a gurgling suck and remove the hose. “I know,” I say, “I should’ve weighed myself before coming in.” 

The hygienist laughs and tells me we’re done.