Short Stories From 10 Years Ago – August 12, 2004
Teeth 2
Short Stories From 10 Years Ago – August 12, 2004 – Today was my second visit to the dentist in my quest for a “Crest” smile. I wasn’t looking forward to it one bit and I wasn’t disappointed. It was a dreadful five hours. The lovely Elizabeth wasn’t there to assist Peter today, replaced instead by Frances a new dental hygienist.
She worked diligently and the three of us muddled through the long afternoon together. The first order of business was the application of a topical anaesthetic, then mega doses of “the needle”. My nose instantly started to lose sensation, followed by my upper lip, my cheeks and finally my eyes. My face felt huge and I immediately started to drool – practice for when I’m old and permanently toothless.
Fortunately I had my bib securely in place and a Kleenex firmly in hand. I’ll never go through this procedure again so if this bridge fails – I’ll become an old gummer – wearing a floral house dress and a chocolate brown cardigan. With any luck that eventuality is still a few years down the proverbial road of life (I hope).
“Now”, said Peter, “I just need to wiggle this temporary bridge off the anchor teeth”. Out came a pair of small pliers. Ideally a dentist should never show a patient any of his tools. “Open wide” came the command. I complied and for the next ten minutes Peter wiggled, I drooled and Frances watched. I’m not sure that I trust a “watcher” – it doesn’t seem like a real job. We made a good trio – the dentist, the hygienist and the dupe.
Success followed in short order and I was once again reduced to a middle-aged, toothless broad. All thoughts of being a fifty-something babe with a dazzling smile evaporated as my front teeth clattered onto the tray.
Being toothless is a great leveller. I’d sooner reveal my chubby thighs to the world. I couldn’t smile properly, I lisped badly when I tried to speak and my upper lip simply caved inward without my pearly whites to support it. Next came the shrill buzz of the drill. Time to shave the anchor teeth down a little bit more. My face was soon covered in water as Frances inserted a combination spray and suction device into my mouth.
I gave up trying to watch Ann Rohmer on the overhead television as Peter’s faced zoomed closer to mine, withdrew and then returned filled with gleeful determination. Eye ball to eye ball, drill whirring, water dribbling down my chin. I gave up and closed my eyes. Half an hour later a sharp pain shot through my upper gum, and unable to scream appropriate invectives at Peter, I winced and groaned. Time to top up the drugs.
An hour passed and I needed a stretch. My back was cramping and my jaws were aching. I sat up, determined to maintain my dignity, took a long drink of water and immediately felt it run out both sides of my mouth and dribble down my bib. So much for the last vestiges of feminine dignity. Peter fiddled with some of his tools of torment and then we moved on to round two.
This involved wrapping the roots of the anchor teeth with some sort of fine cord, whose sole purpose was to keep my gums away from the teeth. This may be a slight exaggeration, but it felt like binder twine.
In my peripheral vision, I could see Peter fiddling with something on his little stainless steel tray. That made me nervous, but also a little curious. What was next. The answer came quickly. “Open really wide” – insert tray filled with goo into patient’s mouth and then direct patient to close jaws firmly.
Excess goop seeped out around the edges of the tray and the ever ready Frances quickly pulled it away with her suction gun. I couldn’t swallow and the gag reflex made me feel as if I might suffocate at any moment. Peter towered over me and said, “Now just sit here and relax for ten minutes”. “RELAX” – I thought, “Is he crazy?” I could be dead in this chair in ten minutes. A victim of goo suffocation, complicated by drool drowning. I could feel the panic start to build up as my heart thumped inside my bib-clad chest. “Okay”, I said to myself. “Just sit here and unwind – I am not having a heart attack”.
Frances said, “Need some suction?” As sweet as she seemed, I thought about grabbing a dental drill and … I shook my head, and imagined the goo hardening to a cement like block in my mouth and the ambulance rushing me to St. Mike’s for an emergency jaw dislocation and tray removal procedure. I
’d get a lawyer and sue Peter. Frances would testify that Peter left me alone in the room with a mouth full of fast drying compound and then went out for pizza. I’d win a huge settlement, retire from real estate and have a real dentist work on my Crest smile.
Instead, Peter returned and with a couple of tugs removed the tray and inspected the contents. “Ah” he muttered, “A perfect impression”. My temporary bridge was once again bonded to my anchor teeth and my top lip resumed its usual position. With with my face still frozen solid I was given my walking papers with instructions to keep bleaching my lower teeth and to anticipate a call for my third appointment within two weeks.
Peter smiled, Frances waved and I lurched out of the dental office and blundered down the five flights of stairs to the ground floor of the Flat Iron Building. It’s now eight o’clock and the freezing is mostly out of my face. My big beaver teeth are once again firmly in place and I’m another step closer to my dazzling, soap opera smile. Oh, and by the way, there’s no chance of you seeing my chubby thighs!
