A couple of years ago when I went to my first Texas dentist, I adopted this philosophy as fundamental personal truth:
Dentistry is not science. Dentists, rather, are voodoo magicians.
I don’t mean to imply for any of you dentists (or aspiring dentists) out there that I hate you all. But if you take it that way, I won’t take time out to correct you.
I don’t play the “I’m from Arkansas” card often, but the fact is that, because I drank well water (read: sans the fluoride) for the first seven or eight years of my life, my teeth have always suffered an unfortunate fate … and I hate it. I had a fantastic dentist growing up — let’s call him Dr. P — who always made me feel, even though it was obvious my teeth weren’t perfect, that nothing in my mouth was horrible or out of the ordinary. But then, Dr. P’s an Arkansas dentist, right? And started taking care of me when I was but a babe who had to be convinced to stay in the chair and not wiggle too much.
When I went to college, I had a choice to make: Did I continue to go to Dr. P on visits back home, or did I graduate on to my own dentist? For the first couple of years, I stuck with Dr. P, but eventually moved on … I tried two dentists (one of whom was my boyfriend’s) there, and hated them both. That’s when my theory on dentistry as voodoo magic had its genesis. The first of the two Bethesda dentists took care of a tiny cavity by — I’m not joking — sandblasting it. The memory of gritty sand in my mouth still makes me shudder a little. When I eventually gave up on Maryland dentists and went back to Dr. P, he emitted little shouts of horror that I’d let this substandard dentist back east use such a questionable dental strategy on my cavity. Dr. P insisted he had to redo it.
I had a good experience with Dr. Grammer in Fayetteville, the brilliant magician who excavated my three wisdom teeth (I was missing the fourth) while I was in grad school. He knocked me out with an IV, gave me gas so I wouldn’t freak out from getting an IV, and gave me excellent recouperative drugs. For that, in the hierarchy of voodoo magician-dentists, Frank Grammer ranks top dog in my book.
And now, Texas, where to get your teeth cleaned you must first go to a pre-cleaning screening appointment where they determine how much of a cleaning you need. {sigh} I generally have this rule (judge me as you will) that I refuse to see a dentist whose name I cannot pronounce … which severely limits my options given my way cheapo dental insurance plan. I tried a guy in Lewisville for a while, Jeremy McKinnis I think was his name. After I had my pre-cleaning screening x-rays and hygenist exam, Jeremy (I call him by his first name because he looked all of 12 years old) came in, took one look at my teeth, and walked back into the hallway saying, “Hey! You guys! You’ve *GOT* to see *THIS*!!!”
I, Liz Norell, became a dental office freak show that day.
The thing Jeremy was reacting to is the fact that I still have four baby teeth. (And since I’m blogging instead of talking, I’m very happy that I don’t have to pause here to point them out, which I *DETEST* doing.) They’re towards the front of my mouth and, when you look, pretty obviously smaller than those around them. I don’t know why I was born without permanents in those locations … but I was, and apparently, in Jeremy’s little sheltered world, that makes me *really* phenomenally weird.
After he calmed down from the shock, Jeremy suggested I have him pull them all out and replace them with implants, at a cost of about $2,000 per tooth. I nearly passed out from shock myself — *I* was ready to go yelling up and down the hall in horror. When I came back a week later for my actual teeth cleaning, the hygenist refused to clean, touch, floss around, or breathe on those four teeth because, as she said, “I’m afraid they’ll fall out if I do.” Apparently, living, eating and drinking with those four teeth is okay, but touching them is O-U-T out of the question. {sigh}
I resolved to find a new dentist, and after several insurance paperwork mistakes and flubs, I finally today went to my new dentist, one Gayle Doores (whose name, you’ll notice, passes the pronounceability test) in Dallas. And I have to say, after so many years of dental disappointments, my expectations were about as low as they could have been.
As will often happen in situations where expectations are so low, I was actually surprised by how competent — dare I say trustworthy? — Dr. Doores turned out to be. The hygenist, in doing her pre-cleaning screening tooth-and-gum poking routine, pointed out a few things about my teeth — “not a problem,” she was quick to point out — that *I’ve* always known about, but that no dentist or hygenist has ever actually made mention of. That immediately made me feel as though I were in the presence of competence. Or, at the very least, a flavor of voodoo magic that happens to fit my tastes.
The dentist herself saw my x-rays and did the little, “Wow! Did you know you have four baby teeth?” routine — erg. — but she said she felt like they would probably last a good long while (“Hey, they’ve lasted this long, right?” were her approximate words) and saw no need for extraction or replacement. She said, “Why would I want to take something out that works and that’s natural and replace it with something foreign?” Amen, sister! She also made a few suggestions about other anomalies among my set o’ teeth, but said that ultimately the choice was mine to make. Definitely a theory of voodoo-magic dentistry I can get behind.
So, I go back June 29 for my actual teeth cleaning, and have a little time to contemplate her suggestions before I make my FSA election for next year (which would pay for the alternatives). My guess is that I’ll probably agree with her — if only because she’s already made ginormous leaps towards earning my trust. And in voodoo magic, folks, trusting the magician is everything.
THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU!