Personal Flat-Screen Televisions

I still remember the mobile hanging above the chair at my childhood dentist — bright orange and yellow fish made of woven paper, sort of lazily drifting back and forth in the conditioned air. Sure, it may not sound like much, but then why do I still remember it? Instead of any Zen-like paper fish, my ex-dentist’s office boasts personal flat-screen televisions attached to fat, automobile-factoryesque adjustable arms jutting from the wall. He must suspect people are so addicted to TV that even the five minute wait between dentist’s assistant and dentist can provide a suitable fix, or else he means for us to wait a lot longer than five minutes. Because I’m thinking a television screen is going to be pretty difficult to enjoy when I’ve got tubes and mini Dremels and rubberized fingers shoved in my mouth, pneumatics buzzing, water spraying everywhere, and plus the giant lamp burning holes in my retinas.

The Receptionist (and the way the place is set up, vis-à-vis her desk)

If you ask me, a receptionist has about two core duties aside from keeping everything straight in the computer: To greet people warmly as they walk in the door, and to bid them a sincere adieu when they leave. Sheets of eyeshadow adorn the gaunt, severe face of my ex-dentist’s receptionist; she wears a remarkable number of silver rings and necklaces, and a crucifix directs your gaze toward her leathering cleavage. Her smile doesn’t seem forced, it is forced; she’s about as warm as a frozen yogurt. Sure, I also scorn the dentist’s assistant for her asking how I spent my weekend, knowing it’s her professional duty to do so and that regardless of my answer I’ll receive a saccharine, “Oh wow, that’s neat,” in return. But at least she’s cheery about it. Make the effort, is all I’m saying.

A really, really shiny leather couch sits in the waiting room across from the receptionist’s desk, and a large flat-screen loops a short infomercial for Botox. The radio plays your typical waiting room schmaltz, to which the receptionist hums along. I’m thinking if Botox is paying for this to run all day long (which, of course they are), is it cool that the TV’s on mute? When she’s ready, the dentist’s assistant leads you through a frosted glass door to where the dentist’s chairs and the personal televisions are. After your cleaning, you’re greeted again by the silver rings and the eyeshadow, and you schedule your next appointment. Then, you and the receptionist exchange curt farewells, and you walk through the frosted glass door . . . back into the waiting room, where the receptionist has wheeled over to that side of her desk, to her other computer. So you have to walk past her again, even though you’ve already said goodbye to her. This setup is ridiculous. Either lose the door (my choice) or else wait until patients have walked through it before saying goodbye to them.

Relative Ease of Visits

After my initial visit, I was ecstatic. Everything had gone so well. Had been so quick. Sure, I was asked to come back the next week to have a couple cavities filled, but considering my last checkup had been about five or six years prior, this was far less than I’d expected. And yet.

During that first visit, the dentist’s assistant asked how often I flossed. I lied, “Maybe once a week, every other week,” and waited for the inevitable scolding. Instead, though, she told me my teeth looked “pretty good” for someone who flosses so infrequently. Come again? You’re telling me I don’t need to floss? Because that’s what I’m hearing. In the six ensuing months I probably flossed three or four times, and during my second visit they didn’t even ask me about it. Perhaps flossing just isn’t a big deal anymore. Or, perhaps, they don’t give a rat’s ass about my teeth.

Back to that first visit, though. After rooting around for some new batteries to stick in his wireless mouse, the dentist showed me my x-rays on the computer, and pointed to some evidence that I was grinding in my sleep. Did I ever wake myself, or anybody else, with this grinding, he wanted to know. I answered No, but he wasn’t buying it, and said he’d like to have me fitted for a night guard. Needless to say, I didn’t want to wear a night guard, but nor did I want to grind my teeth down to a powder, so I said, OK. After my perfunctory “cleaning,” though, I was ushered to the receptionist with no further mention of any such fitting. When I came back the next week to have my cavities filled, and again during my second cleaning, six months later, same story. Was I going to bring up the night guard? Hell no, I wasn’t. Shouldn’t have to.

My Botched(?) Fillings

My ex-dentist, back when he was still my dentist, used his UV-ray gun to InstaSet my two fillings, then asked me to bite down and see if I noticed anything out of the ordinary. I did, so he went in there and ground everything down a bit, then asked me again. After a few rounds of this, I was all set. While surrendering my credit card information to the receptionist, though, I caught myself tonguing some rough areas. I told the dentist about it. He said to wait a couple days, maybe a week, since usually that stuff just smoothed itself out. Half a year later, the roughness remains.

Several months after my cavities were filled, I started to notice some sensitivity back there, especially when I bit into hot food. Fearing how much it would cost to have my botched fillings fixed, I decided not to call the dentist. But I did bring it up at my next cleaning. My ex-dentist told me everything looked fine, though, and that I should call him in a week or two if it was still hurting. Really? Because it hurts now, and I’m in your office now, so, like, maybe we can figure something out here. The thing about the dentist’s office, though, is that from the moment you walk in, your only real goal is to walk back out, and ASAP. So, I did.

Etc.

At every other dentist I’ve ever been to, they stick one of those mini vacuums in your mouth along with the fluoride-filled mouthpiece, so that none of the stuff, which is apparently pretty bad for you, is inadvertently swallowed. Not at my ex-dentist’s office, though. Nor is there a warning not to swallow. And, further, they don’t even give you a chance to spit and rinse in the sink after you’re done. At my second cleaning, while being shuffled out to the receptionist, I passed a sink, and so took the opportunity to expel a mouthful of fluoride-ridden saliva, then turned on the faucet to wash it down the drain. Only no water came out, and there sat my saliva for all to see.

At that point, I already knew it was over. That in a few months I’d be two states away, casually shopping for a new dentist, or else just not. When the receptionist asked if I’d like to schedule my next appointment or if they should send me a reminder in six months, I told her to go ahead and send me the reminder. Why not. I received a curt farewell (but no free toothbrush!) and stepped out into the parking lot, where I expelled another mouthful of fluoride.

Call it a kiss goodbye.