Many people are afraid of dentists, and I think when you hear about three of my dentists, you’ll understand why I might have trepidation.
The first dentist to probe my mouth was Dr. Chantiles. He had had polio as a child, and I don’t know whether it was that and the resulting physical challenges that made him drag his one leg around, the fact that other kids would have made fun of his short stature, or what—but he was not a pleasant man. Going to him was always a trial because he would snap at me for anything, such as if I didn’t open my mouth far enough or the right way. (Tilting my head back instead of lowering my jaw. Yeah, I still don’t understand that.)
Part of the scariness of the dental visit was not just his angry demeanor, but that he sounded like a monster when he walked. Often he would get a phone call while I was in the chair and, as a budget dentist, he did not employ a secretary or receptionist, so he had to answer it himself. So he would walk like Dr. Frankenstein’s assistant (step, drag, step, drag) to the front desk in the next room, answer the phone, deal with the caller, and then return (step, drag, step, drag) back to the chair in the most frightening-sounding way possible.
Eventually I wound up with another dentist, a kindly old man on the verge of retirement—who probably should have retired long before he did (something I often hear about those in the medical profession). I would open my mouth, he would do a perfunctory probe around my teeth, and say,” No cavities. You have a fine set of teeth, son.” He said that every time, so I guess that was his standard line of dialogue.
One time, prompted by my mother, I asked, “Should you clean my teeth?” He said no, that everything was fine, that I took care of everything with my brushing.
When he finally did retire and I went to the dentist who took over his practice, I was told I had four cavities and three impacted wisdom teeth that had to be surgically removed. So much for my fine set of teeth.
In Berkeley, I went to someone at the dental school and this was the first time I encountered a dentist wearing a face shield and rubber gloves. Other than that, things were fine there.
Finally, in Greensburg, PA I found a dentist who took my employer’s insurance—which turned out to be great insurance but the dentist was not. I won’t mention his name because he’s still practicing, but he was awful. Besides not taking adequate care of my teeth, he was an incredible misogynist who yelled at his hygienists and assistants. Not that they were that competent—one, while flossing my teeth, sent a new crown flying out of my mouth and across the room. But he was nasty and out of control, and after one outburst, I vowed not to go back.
Fortunately, I’ve had a run of benign dentists and hygienists (at a practice that formerly worked in Sears) so I no longer panic when the notice for a dental visit appears on my calendar. Only once did I have a bit of trouble—an Australian oral surgeon who assured me that this tooth removal would take no time at all, and then proceeded to struggle with the extraction, made more problematic for me as the pads and papers in his shirt pocket teabagged me while he pulled…and pulled…and pulled. Eventually the tooth yielded, but I still recall those pocket contents whacking me in the face again and again.
MUSOFYR 