Decadent Dentistry, part 2

This dentist’s office freaked me out a little, not just because of the aforementioned story, but also because it resembled more a spa than a dentist’s office. White marble tiling speckled with black flakes, large frosted glass door, televisions everywhere, a massage unit in the patient’s chair (which I’d had S. turn off soon after she turned it on), a television positioned overhead for when you’re lying back in the chair, the digital x-ray machine hidden within a solid wooden cabinet. How the upper-middle class deal with teeth cleaning.

What I detest about bite-wing x-rays are the actual biting, as the edge of the film digs into my gums, leaving little fleshy strands of gingival tissue to wiggle around, like some sort of tiny polyp attached to my mouth. Also, the taste of sterile plastic, flat and foreign and just a step beyond what you might expect from something you would put in your mouth. Then again, that light pink film was what caught my cavity (upper right quadrant), so I guess I can’t hate that much.

The television overhead was nice, while I was getting poked and prodded with the ultrasonic cleaner, but mostly, I was watching my teeth in the reflective surface (glass or plastic protecting the television from random flying bits of tartar or polish or what have you). A most disturbing way to watch what should not be. Also, the good dentist M.N. and S., as they performed their duties, kept asking me questions.

I don’t know how to react to answering questions when I’ve got a mouth full of equipment and spittle. Often, the only answer I can give is a non-committal “Ugh-ugh” for “No,” and a non-committal “Ugh-ugh” for “Yes.” No head-shaking, that throws off the entire process. S. when polishing my teeth, would stop to let me answer, then go right back to it. Of course, my answers were still unintelligible anyway, teeth and tongue coated in the gritty mint-flavored sand.

At one point, S. was flossing my teeth, and asked me to turn my head towards her, so she could access my back right quadrant. I stared straight forward, at some stray hairs just behind her neck. Her smooth, creamy, chocolate neck. Her neck, probably soft and supple and waiting for me to… uh… turned my head towards her, so she could floss my teeth. The floss broke, no doubt due to the thoughts going through my head, or because my teeth tend to pack together quite close. They, like me, are afraid of strangers, and bunch together for strength.

After this was done, S. came back with a warm moist towel, no doubt for me to clean up my…. My what? Was this a flight? It sure was a trip for me. I wiped my hands and face, then kept the towel, as they apparently did not reuse these things. Ah, America, land of free hand towels. I even scheduled my followup for a filling for Monday during lunch, so we’ll see how that goes.

O.R. asked me if she needed to call to remind me about the Monday appointment, but I said that I would probably remember, and if I really did forget, then it was on me. Third Receptionist (T.R.) looked at me, and with a thick Russian accent, said:

T.R.: I can tell from the lines of your face that you are smart.
K.T.: No, I just fake it really well.
O.R.: She’s right, I know what she means.
T.R.: Yes, some people, they have a moon face, you can’t tell anything.
Your face, your lines, I can tell that you are smart.

OK. What? Again, if I were smart, I would not have (feel free to choose any one of my life failings). We’ll see how this goes on Monday.