First of all, they're doctors, these dentists. They go to medical school. Those plaques hanging above the X-Ray gun aren't for decoration; they pay good money to earn their credentials. I've had dentists who've graduated from Notre Dame, University of Pennsylvania, and Georgetown. And every time I've been in the chair with sharp metal probes in my mouth, I've thanked God that this person didn't become a stockbroker.

I don't know why it is, but every dentist I've had has been exceptionally articulate, talented, and interested in a plethora of subjects beyond molars and fluoride. One of these dentists, whom I'll refer to as Dr. B., was a Civil War buff and amateur cabinet maker. He was a big man, over 6 feet and 230 pounds, with thick but gentle craftsman's hands. I always found it amazing that a man capable of wielding an adze had the delicacy to perform such minute operations in such a small space—you know, the mouth. How did those big fingers perform what was essentially surgery in miniature? I have trouble just flossing in the back; this guy could fill the back of a tooth with his only view of the scene being the reflection from a dollhouse-sized mirror.

I think names are important too. When I was teaching in Freeport, Maine and new to the area, I asked my colleagues where I could find a good dentist. One of the English teachers raved about hers. She said that when she was looking for one, she ran her finger down the list in the phone book and chose the dentist with the most gentle sounding name: Dr. Swan. To my ear, "Swan" is about the best name you can have if you're a dentist. The worst, I think, is one I saw when driving through New Hampshire once: James Hertz, D.D.S.

So on the basis of this man's good name, I went to him. The initial X-rays revealed a staggering 11 cavities. I hadn't been to a dentist since the last time I saw Dr. B., which was over five years earlier when his daughter and I broke up; I thought it wise to discontinue my visits at that point. When spelling out his plan for how we were going to conquer the cavities (Normally I don't like other people speaking in first person plural, but Dr. Swan's use of we gave me the comforting, if misguided, feeling that I was somehow involved in this process and not just the passive recipient of sharp objects), Dr. Swan held nothing back. He shared the X-rays, showed me the problem areas, and described every procedure he would use to restore my teeth. By the end of this consultation/pep talk, I was reminded of the opening sequence of The Six Million Dollar Man, wherein OSI Chief Oscar Goldman says of a near-dead Steve Austin, "We can rebuild him. We have the technology." I was similarly encouraged.

MY LIVING ROOM: In an effort to save money and make
our guests feel as comfortable as possible, Alexas
and I decided to furnish our living room with used
(pre-owned) dental equipment.  The chair tilts way
back for excellent naps.

A year later my teeth were fixed and Dr. Swan sent me on my way, imbued with the virtues of flossing and a greater understanding of how important one's teeth are. In everyone's life there are periods of being settled followed by periods of limbo. This often happens after moving to a new town or city and we have to rely on others' recommendations of good restaurants, doctors, and, of course, dentists. For most of us, these are uncomfortable periods. Just as most of the books that other people recommend don't speak to us, it is difficult to find dentists with whom we have chemistry.

After moving to New York, my wife and I sampled 3 or 4 dentists before finding our current one, Dr. G. Like a person taking a new sedan for a test drive, I've made a habit of having an introductory cleaning done at the prospective dentist's office before committing to the hard stuff. Afterward, Alexas asks me how it went, with me rating items such as modernity of the equipment, comfort and colors of the waiting room, the dentist's competence, and the general vibe of the place. Dr. G. aced my secret tests.

The first thing that impressed me about Dr. G. was that the doctor herself did the cleaning (a task that most dentists relegate to their hygienist) using a super high-powered water blaster to remove the tartar. Modern dentistry in action. Over the next few months while having new work done, I learned a lot about the science of dentistry. For example, I used to believe that plaque was just acidy residue left after eating. Wrong. Turns out that plaque is actually made up of hundreds of bacteria. In other words, when you have a cavity, you've got this living mini-blob eating away at your teeth, and the acid in your mouth is only a catalyst for their destructive work. The reason for the drilling is that the dentist has to drill into the tooth, dig out the offending blob, and refill the cavity. Live and learn, I guess.

I suppose that with the extensive dental work I've needed, I would be justified in feeling resentful—toward my crappy Scottish ancestors for having bad teeth; toward the many small Maine towns I grew up in that didn't have fluoridated water; toward my parents for allowing me to eat Sugar Daddies and not forcing me to brush and floss three times daily; or toward the American Dental Association (that's ADA for those of us who follow this business) for not coming out with some laser technology that would make cavities and drills things of the past. But I have no resentments.  Learning to live with the Novocain needle (which, by the way, suspiciously resembles the syringe horse vets use) and tolerating the ear-splitting screech of the drill are lessons that have strengthened my character. Besides, they're good people, these dentists—at least the ones I've come to know. I won't say that I look forward to going to the dentist now, but I don't hide in the closet anymore to avoid appointments. Well, at least not too often.

Thank you for visiting notwriting.com. Now go take care of your teeth.      

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