Open Wide

Open Wide

By Mark Leitheiser

With the days of summer reaching their full length, I am reminded that this is a good time for a tune-up. Not for my car, for me. Actually, at my age, a tune-up is wishful thinking. A complete overhaul would be more appropriate. At any rate, like most summers, my overhaul started at the dentist and like most visits, it left me speechless!

Let’s be clear: the problem with my dental visits isn’t the staff. Everyone from the receptionist and hygienist to the dentist, is courteous and highly skilled. The problem is the patient- me and if you’re anything like me, you probably leave speechless too.

My problems start when I enter the building where I am greeted warmly by a fine receptionist who invites me to have a chair. This waiting game may seem harmless, but I suspect something sinister here. This feels like sitting in the school office, waiting to see the principal. Only when I am completely on edge does the receptionist send me back where I am greeted by a lovely hygienist who ushers me into an oversized electric chair.

The chair itself isn’t so bad and things begin to look up when my highly-qualified hygienist offers me a small pillow. Ah, sleep. Now we’re speaking my language. However, my rest is short lived as she deftly clamps what appears to be a bib around my neck. A bib? What’s next? Strained peas and carrots and a baby spoon? Years ago, in a vain attempt to lighten the mood, I actually asked my hygienist for a menu after receiving my bib. She wasn’t amused.

With my bib securely in place, I am suddenly blinded by the light of three suns. I quickly confess to crimes I didn’t commit but what else can I do? Thankfully, my hygienist is too busy sharpening her tools to pay attention. I’ve avoided jail time- for now.

The fun begins in earnest as my hygienist places a suction tube, which is obviously connected to a shop vac, in the back of my mouth and begins to scrape the surfaces of my teeth to remove the plaque. The probing of my gums with sharp instruments, I suspect, is just for fun.

The real fun, of course, begins as the dentist enters the room. He offers a warm greeting and gets right to work. “Open wide. Let’s have a look.” And with that, he begins to scratch and poke at my teeth, obviously looking for trouble. Worse, he begins using dental jargon that only he and my hygienist can understand. “Hmmmmm. Looks like a diverted occlusal with a hyper distal crack and mesial impact on numbers, four, seven, eight and twelve.” “What? What does that mean?” “It means I will see you again in a couple of weeks. In the meantime, don’t eat anything. Have a nice day.” The Japanese were unable to break the code of the Navajo code talkers during WW II. Might have been easier to use dentists.

Two weeks later, with my bib and search lights squarely in place, my dentist strolls in and gets to work. First, will come the numbing shots of Lidocaine which are guaranteed to have me slobbering like a dog in just a few minutes. Then, clamps and cotton wads, which are almost certainly holdovers from WW II interrogation centers, are generously placed inside my mouth leaving me unable to communicate in any meaningful way.

Which leads to the most maddening part of any dental visit: the questions from the dentist.

“So, how has your summer been so far?” “Yggouivviaaalloot,” I slobber. “Uh-huh. Getting any fishing in?” “Jghuuugisaargigysaah,” I reply with only half my tongue in working order. At least now I know what the bib is for as I feel drops of saliva crawling down my chin.

With half my mouth completely numb and sucked dry by the shop-vac, it’s time for the main event. My dentist leans in, pokes around a little bit, again, just for fun, and then the drilling begins. Hearing the sudden buzz of an angry wasp, I remind myself: “I’m not gonna cry, I’m not gonna cry . . .”

At this point, the problem is time; it stops in its tracks. The grinding will take place for what feels like hours leaving an enormous hole in my tooth. So this is how an oil field feels. If he drills much longer, I fear there will be protestors in the street. Finally, my fine dentist takes a break. Whether it is to rest his arms or to let the drill cool a bit I don’t know but this much is clear: we’re almost done.

After filling the crater in my tooth with what tastes like a mixture of wall putty, motor oil and vinegar, we shake hands and I am told to see the receptionist on the way out. “Would you like to pay for this today?” she asks. Now I cry. One look at the bill shows me I am in real trouble, so I quickly try to negotiate: I offer both my children for a reduced rate. When this generous offer is refused, I consider sweetening the deal by offering Sweetums too, but somehow, offering my lovely wife as payment for a dentist bill seems immoral. I ask for my options.

“You can pay your bill in full today and receive a .0007 percent discount or you can sign up for our ‘Payments for Life’ program. Which would you prefer?” A quick glance at the checkbook makes things clear. I sign up for life. At my age, it’s clearly the better option.

With my dental tune-up complete, I stride outside free to enjoy the long, hot days of summer knowing my chops are in good shape. For that, I must thank my outstanding dental staff for their help. Now it’s your turn for a dental tune-up. I hope all goes well for you and if you are anything like me, your visit will leave you speechless, too. Open wide.