Written By Brian Matthews
Recently, my stepson Mark had his “wisdom teeth” removed. Mark is 12, but according to the oral surgeon, he has the jaw of a 17-year-old.
This was just the information Mark needs to further boost his growing sense of being. I imagine Mark being in school bragging to a girl at lunch that his jaw is really old enough to be in high school. Girls like it when you talk about the relative skeletal ages you possess, right?
I wish I knew where he got the jaw of a 17-year-old. I have the toenails of a man three years post mortem and the teeth of someone 27 years older than me. This is why I finally made an appointment to go to the dentist.
I wasn’t avoiding a visit to the dental professionals because I didn’t like them. Dentists are clean people and seem nice if you like blue scrubs and latex gloves. I was avoiding the dentist because I’m not a huge fan of large needles in my pink gums. I’m quirky that way.
The day of the appointment arrived and I showed up at my appointment obviously nervous and jittery. The hygienist took me back to the exam area, which was full of sharp metal tools.
The outlook was not good. I sat down in the chair, and was given a TV remote. Since I almost never control the remote at home, I wasn’t too sure what to do with it. This only added to my anxiety. The hygienist, who I will call “Dana” because that’s her name, asked me what I was nervous about.
I explained that, knowing the history of dentistry, I was most nervous about the medicinal bleeding, cupping and leeches. The tray of medieval tools beside the dental chair wasn’t helping either. I wasn’t sure if they were going to clean my teeth or make me confess to being a witch.
Soon, I had a mask covering my nose pumping nitrous oxide, aka laughing gas. I was instructed to “just relax.” I began to realize my legs losing feeling and an overwhelming sense of “squirreliness.” The gas was obviously working.
The exam went swiftly, and the next thing I know, I was being propped up and asked when I wanted to come back for my next checkup. That was great! Can I come back tomorrow? Thanks to Dana, I no longer fear dentists. Of course, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t mind napping in a pit of venomous snakes if I had enough laughing gas.
Now I love my dentist. I was lucky to find a good one. Others have not been so lucky.
Dentists need to be chosen with a great amount of care. This is not merely the oral equivalent of a car wash. No, no, Spanky. This is the area of prime mastication. Losing the ability to chomp the choppers means you better like Jell-O.
That is why it is of the utmost importance to know what you are looking for. I have spent much time researching this and have determined that there is no central list of things to beware of when choosing a dentist; therefore, I have amassed my own. I call it: “You might want to get another dentist if -”
“You might want to get another dentist if the bib they put on you prior to cleaning has a picture of a lobster on it.
“The dental hygienist makes car revving noises when she cleans your teeth.
“There’s a Shop Vac in the corner of the exam room.
“The ‘hygiene kit’ sent home with you contains a toothpick and grain alcohol.
“The dentist asks you if you are ‘allergic to funk.’
“The dental chair has a cup holder and folds up.
“The dental hygienist just prays over your mouth for 30 minutes before sending you home.
“You have to reschedule your appointment because the dentist can’t make bail.
“While the doctor is using a laser, he asks if you ‘- use that little punching bag thingy in the back of your throat?’
“The dentist keeps referring to it as a ‘Toof Bruff.'”
Consider this my gift to you for better oral health. Now, please excuse me; Mark’s jaw is here, and it wants a driver’s license and a later curfew.
The source of this article is http://www.bismarktribune.com/articles/2007/08/27/news/columnists/matthews/138371.txt