Tooth Decay

Now that the boots are unpacked, the job routine is in motion and the city buzz has become backdrop hum-drum to my own life soundtrack, I thought it was high time to see a dentist. 

Since my Grand Canyon spaced pearly whites started growing in, I have loved this particular checkup. We always complained when my dad would wake us, after falling asleep watching Spaceballs (the movie) or The Three Amigos, chocolate ice cream bowl in hand, and make us floss and brush. You know how painful that is...half asleep, eyes shut, trying not to let the toothpaste ooze down your chin. But nothing was more satisfying than hearing Dr. Poulson say "Yep, Yep, all looks great here, Jamie. What a nice set of chompers." And then, like clock work or a practiced script, I jumped from the chair and dug my plastic toy from the buried treasure chest and skipped out to admire how shiny my smile was from all the attention it had just received. 

It truly was a satisfying experience. The office staff knew us quite well and loved hearing about the latest in the Dwyer kids lives. I told them stories about my gymnastics coach and how Charlie was the most annoying little brother on the planet, and they always seemed to listen with astute ears.  They were super sensitive when cleaning around the gum lines, habitually letting me choose my favorite flavor of fluoride (cinnamon all day long) and were very patient every time I had to pick a new design for my frequently lost retainers. I think during the entire spectrum of my pediatric dental experiences, there was only one bad trip; the time I gagged on the retainer mold and barfed it up on my uniform shirt. Even the day Sam kicked me in the face right after we got braces, couldn't diminish the love I had for Dr. Poulson and crew. 

The day I turned 20, marked the day I could never return to such a peri-dontal paradise. They gave me one last treasure from the box and said "Enjoy the other side." From then on, I was forced into a world of grown-up molars. I had no idea it would be so traumatizing.

When the time finally came, I dug deep and found a dentist in the Chicago area. Desperate for someone who could offer the same gentle finesse, I struck gold and unraveled Taf Paulson D.D.S. Notice the name similarity? That was no mistake. The moment I saw her Holistic Dental Approach ad in the Conscious Choice magazine, I knew she was the one. (So, if your last name is Paulson and/or Poulson, you can floss me any day). Her staff was just as incredible. They became great friends of mine. Marlene, the secretary, and I would talk for 30  minutes at a time when she would call for my payments. (That's right. They were so good, that even though my insurance didn't cover the costs, I still kept going back. I was in love with Taf and Staff...no question.) I knew about their family members, bratty step-kids, vacation dream spots and previous jobs. They asked me about work, and dating and where I got my scarves. One of them even consulting me about fertility specialists and asked my advice on the best approach to getting pregnant (I guess that's not obvious.)

What made them so great? What made them rise above the rest?:

1.) They had Yogi Tea in the waiting room. Only the best tea on earth.

2.) They gave you safety goggles when they shined that bright, offensive light directly into your face. (Mere sunglasses but such a nice gesture...who else does that?)

3.) They used the tastiest cleaning substance (all natural) without the medieval pointy metal machinery which looks more like a weapon than a toothbrush.

4.) They dished me compliments, yet again, on such spectacular teeth.

But, the days of perfect report cards were over. What Taf and Staff discovered my first visit were not a complete set of un-decaying tusks, but 2-11 cavities. WHAAAAAAT?! This was a foreign language to me. I had always prided on the fact that I had gone a lifetime with not a single cavity in my mouth. I was shocked, slightly depressed and ready to dump the dentist forever. Taf was surprised too. She shook her head in disbelief and simply muttered "Looks, are certainly deceiving."

She took the time to show me, on there state-of-the-art equipment, where the cavities were and what they looked like. Microscopic cameras roamed the interior of my mouth like the little droids they send to explore the surface of mars. I saw all the crooks and crannies that led to deep crevices and grooves. And I thought I was a good brusher...that is, one that brushes well...30 solid seconds for each 1/4 of my mouth, but what I saw pointed in a different direction.

2-11? How can that be? Apparently, 2 were bad...and 9 were building. Provisions and decisions were made. Drilling took place under the security of my safety spectacles and the essence of Enya. (They even make the drilling enjoyable!)

So now I am in New York and what is a picky girl to do? Google it is!  I came up with a few options that seemed presentable. I called, secretly screening them all, judging the tone of the voice on the other end, and went blindly with the office that could squeeze me in the soonest. Dr. Gross (ugh) seemed legit. Educated at Columbia, I figured he was good. I asked "which Dr. in the office is your favorite?" to the guy on the other line. "Oh! (flamboyantly) Dr. Gross for sure." OK, it's a date.

The office was harder to find than substance in Sarah Palin's pursuit for VP (ohhh snap). I was late, per usual, and had I known how grueling of an escapade it was going to be, I would have gotten even more lost, and given up. The clerk was a biatch, the dental hygienist a Nazi and Dr. Gross a criminal. No smiles, no safety goggles, no friendly small talk, no PICTURES ON THE WALL! I bet most prison cells look prettier.

When I sat down for the cleaning, generally the best part, I mentioned to the lady that one of my upper right molars was particularly sensitive. "I think I brush too hard,,,leading to diminishing enamel?" She said she would be gentle but I think her definition of gentle, is my definition of cruel and pain-inducing. Not only was her machinery from the 1940's, but it was leaking and it seemed to leak all the way down my shirt. She raised the metal pick in the air as she tried to re-attach the tubing, and the pointy edge glistened in the light. I lost count because I nearly passed out, but I think she rolled the very tip of it on the most sensitive part of my tooth 7 or 8 times...me gasping each time. It was rough but nowhere near as rough as when she followed that act by sand blasting each tooth with a baking soda concoction. It was salty and excruciating. What got me through it was visual imagery; picturing myself in the arms of someone dark and handsome. She told me to spit and rinse and when I did, the sight of blood encouraged me to never return to such a hell hole. Neither of the Paulson/Poulson's ever withdrew a drip of my blood.

Dr. Gross entered the room. Bald and overweight, his voice reminded me of one I had heard before. 

"So my dear, you are here for a checkup, huh? And Donna said you just moved here. Where from?"

Oh good! He seems nice enough. Maybe this will end on a good note! I mutter "Chi..." 

"What insurance do you have?" he interrupts. "Any pain in any of the teeth?" 

And than I realize that his voice is the same one I had talked to just days prior while booking this very appointment. He was the man who had recommended himself to me. Figures.

The X-rays they took showed no cavities. Not a single decaying tooth in the whole bunch. 

"Really? Because my last dentist, who was awesome, told me I had 11," I confusingly confess.

"Well you see, when you drill into a tooth you break the barrier...BLAH BLAH BLAH."

Essentially, what I grasped form his lecture, was that he would only drill if the tooth was hurting but not a second before. I could tell her was excited to get me out of there. Just pleased to bill my insurance for doing NOTHING. His remedy for my upper right sensitivity was to lacquer it up with a sealant that would close the gap between the gum and my natural enamel. 

"It will only cost you...uhhh....a fifty dollar co-pay."

What a thief. He just made that number up in his head!  The negative thoughts about this whole visit were flowing in my mind like rolling rapids. Sweet glimpses of Taf and Staff would make interruptions and when I sat alone in that gnarly clinic chair, I rolled my eyes wishing I was back in Illinois.

They painted the newest addition to my tooth on and sanded it down. "Welcome to New York! Buh-bye." Then he just walked out of the room...never to be seen again.

I felt robbed. I felt incomplete. Is this how it is? Is this why NO ONE else loves the dentist? I always wondered why I was the only person glorifying it all. I really sat and contemplated it. Were the Paulson/Poulson's the best it could get?

I recently received a voicemail from a friend that commented on my 773 area code. "So, I have noticed that you still have the Chicago phone number. I take that as a sign that your heart is still there?...mine too." The words sank heavy. At this point in my life, I can't exactly pinpoint where my heart is. I think it is wandering just like my body and will eventually find the way back to it's proper place as soon as that ideal location for mind, body and soul has been discovered. But just like my area code, one thing is certain, my dentist is not in New York City.