I don't particularly enjoy the dentist. Who does? But my visits are always short. They scrape minute amounts of plaque off my teeth, pat me on the head for my superb brushing ability, and send me on way with a new toothbrush and my very own tiny tube of toothpaste. The only dental work I have ever had done, other than the preventative stuff, was having a couple cavities filled when I was 15. I had just gotten my first job at a sub shop and was enjoying the perk of free soda whenever I wanted. Unfortunately, my teeth did not enjoy that privilege as much and told me so. Two cavities appeared, but they were drilled, filled, and I went on my merry way having learned my lesson.
Since then, for close to 25 years I have traipsed in and out of the dentist's office with nary a problem. In fact, if I were being brutally honest with myself, I've always congratulated myself on what a fine set of teeth I have. Braces? Never had them. Root canal? Nope. Gum planing? Don't even think about bringing that laser next to my beautiful teeth. Of course, I make the appropriately sympathetic noises when talking with others about their dental woes, but secretly inside I am pitying these lesser mortals.
So this last Wednesday I blew into the dentist for my semiannual congratulatory session. Things were going great. The hygienist was speeding through my cleaning as usual, when all of a sudden she paused and spent quite a lot of time in one area. She scraped. She poked. She scraped some more. She spent an inordinate amount of time just staring at my teeth with a mirror. What the heck was going on? Even for teeth as gorgeous as mine I couldn't see staring at them that long. But nothing was said, and she moved on to complete my cleaning.
I decided I was getting all worked up for nothing and was ready to accept my bag of goodies when the dreaded words came. "I have some bad news." What? Who? It can't be me. You've cleaned my teeth for years. Are you sure you're talking about my mouth? (Pearly whites flashed here.)
Remember those cavities I mentioned earlier? Well, one of the fillings decided it was too big for its britches and fractured my tooth. When I looked at the picture, even I, swimming in a big river of denial, couldn't mistake that crack for anything but what it was. Climbers could have been lost down in that fissure it was so large.
So the answer? Get a crown. They asked me if I was familiar with what a crown was. I gathered from their expressions that my answer of "a special cap proclaiming that tooth to be royalty" was not entirely correct. They walked me through the upcoming procedure, freaking me out with each successive sentence. As I was hyperventilating, the first appointment was scheduled, and they gently shoved me out the door muttering to themselves to remember to put the tanks of nitrous oxide in my room.
I went home and quietly fell to pieces. Now, I have plenty of faults. I have a quick temper, I am definitely more zaftig than twiggy, and my skin has two tones, sunburned or blotchy. But, damn it, I have good teeth! Or at least I did. My world has changed. My teeth have betrayed me. My crowning glory is no more. And what do I have left? A crown, which is not as glorious as it sounds.
Next up . . . fun with nitrous oxide.
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