Blood Bath
Yesterday was October 31 – Halloween – my son Theo’s favorite holiday. He dressed up as “The Death of Democracy“. Best costume ever, especially in light of the upcoming midterm elections. My self-regulating kid eats three pieces of candy a day for a week, then we take our leftovers to the Venice fire department. Those guys can afford the calories. I hope they have dental insurance.
I hate the dentist. I’d almost prefer that 5-day chemo treatment I had just before Halloween 2015 to having my teeth cleaned. Not really, but the screaming sounds of drills freak me out, even if it’s in the next room. Last week, the hygienist blasted me with that new-fangled water treatment that felt like a tattoo needle in my mouth. It cleaned my teeth and shredded my gums into pulp. She produced a mirror, showing me my pie hole full of blood, driving the point home that daily flossing is beneficial. Couldn’t she at least have brought me a little Dixie cup full of mouthwash while shaming me?
Once I had a beloved dentist. I’d see him at political rallies and protests. He retired to concentrate on his pottery and his grandkids. I adored his assistant Gidget, and would sit in the chair long past my appointment time to chat with her. This guy also had “Gentle Jane” on staff, my all-time favorite teeth cleaner, and she was just that. I had a cleaning scheduled, but Gentle Jane called in sick. I had made an appointment for the first thing in the morning so I could get to work.
I arrived at the office, early to my 7:30 am appointment to find the door locked. A few minutes later, the hygienist arrived to meet me.
“Jewish Central Time!” she laughed.
Huh?
I sat through the cleaning in silence, not gabbing away like usual, even with my mouth occupied by tools. Echoing in my head was “Jewish Central Time...Jewish Central Time…”
She finished up and asked, “All done. Do you have any questions?”
“What is Jewish Central Time?” I inquired.
“I…I have a lot of Jewish friends,” she said emphatically.
After my dentist retired, I moved on to another. It was 2013, and my appointment was just days after my dad had died.
“Your gums are really bloody,” the hygienist informed me, alarmed. In retrospect, maybe I should have been more suspicious, but my rare blood disease wasn’t diagnosed for another year and a half.
“Are you on your period?” she asked.
“I’m fifty-five years old,” I told her.
She continued chiseling at my teeth and nicking my gums, making comments along the way about the bloodbath she was creating. Admittedly, I often rush through my brushing and I’m a casual flosser. I’ve got more pressing issues like my kid or falling into bed exhausted.
Relieved to have the cleaning complete, I was happy to have this new dentist come in before the final polishing. He shook my hand and introduced himself.
“How’s Chris?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“And your son?”
“He’s great.”
He finished his exam and left me with the hygienist to complete my cleaning.
“What does your husband do?” the hygienist wondered.
“It’s a ‘she’. My son has two moms.” I informed her.
“Have you had an HIV test?” she shot back.
Did she really jump to the frightened conclusion that, with my bloody gums, I might give her AIDS because my kid has same sex parents? I left there disgruntled.
When I got home, I couldn’t let it go. I called the dentist.
“Do your hygienists ask all your patients if they have HIV tests, or just the gay ones?”
The dentist was horrified and apologized. He assured me that he had lots of gay and lesbian patients, and asked what he could do to keep me coming back.
“Have a talk with your hygienists. Educate them. That’s all,” I requested.
This dentist also retired, handing over his practice. I equate his replacement to a shifty auto mechanic, preying on unknowing females. Behind her back, I complain to friends, accusing her of selling me stuff I don’t need, like a $700 mouth guard. Yet when I wear the pricey mouth piece that looks like I’m going out for a long pass toward the end zone, my jaw doesn’t hurt. When she remarked that two of my crowns need to be replaced, I huffed out of there. I recently noticed that I’ve been avoiding those two teeth when chewing or drinking cold beverages so I’m not in pain.
Looking back, was the bloodbath in the dentist’s office a prequel to my rare bone marrow failure disorder? Just three Halloweens ago, I handed out candy as a real live vampire, bleeding from my nose and teeth. Was the homophobic hygienist onto something? Was I being overly sensitive about Jewish Central Time, which is apparently just code for being punctual? Was the recent shyster simply recommending treatment to spare me from the threat of bridges, dentures and broken teeth? Why am I so skeptical of the people working in my mouth? As mindful as I try to be, I’m pretty sure dentists and their hygienists don’t see me that way.
Dentists are like bathing suits for me. I can never seem to find the right fit. I think I’ll try Theo’s dentist. Afsie, the hygienist, is funny and kind and has names for her equipment like “Mr. Thirsty”. The dentist is patient and swift. Theo gets the same instructions I do – more flossing and longer brushing – but no shaming and not much bleeding. It’s true, he doesn’t eat much candy, even with a Halloween stash, but neither do I. Perhaps a kids’ dentist is best for me, because I’m a big baby.