Stopped in for the six-month checkup on Thursday. It had been some time since a full set of X-rays was taken. Modern dentistry has leaped so far in a generation. In my youth it meant hopping in the trusty dark green Ford LTD with Mom chaperoning us deep toward the heart of Chicago to see Dr. Wutsizzface. Honestly can't remember. Or should I say that I can't remember and I came by it honestly, obliterating those neurons through sheer force of will.
My mouth has a proud history of being all messed up, a dandy mixture of convenient genes and incredible indifference for too long. As a kid the chompers were just large enough to be ill-fitting for children-sized X-ray wings (is that what you call them? Sounded more likely than "cardboard flappy things"). So Dr. Onefootinthegrave emotionlessly inserted adult-range wings in there. A glorious combination of immature paranoia and implements jammed against the soft palette of the back of the roof of my mouth generated a gag reflex for the ages. "Lean over and spit," was the familiar refrain, meaning into the sink to my left which was once the fountain in Lilliput's town square.
Dry-heave-gate ranks as only my second strongest memory of Dr. Grumblebee's office. I exclude the stench-of-death scent of burning teeth that anyone who's set butt in a dentist's chair can recall. No, this was more of a tactile experience that Heff might've loved but for me was a script out of a Vincent Price flick, pinned to a chair during a cavity filling by a bunch of hygienists while Mom was escorted from the room. Actually, doc may have been Price's grandfather and just handed him the imagery. I should investigate royalties.
Nowadays, dentist visits are a comparative joy. The hygienist is my age, an engaging sort who spends time exchanging pleasant stories about family, sports, vacations and shows. Goggles protect the eyes from any stray spittle, which is low probability anyway with the vacuum-powered mini-hose that keeps the mouth dry. After the teeth are scraped clean, a fantastic minty spray comes out that sandblasts the surface to a shine.
One thing that hasn't changed - the X-ray process remains a stick-this-in-your-mouth-and-hold-still proposition. But as family and friends will tell you I am now possessed of a nice, big mouth that creates a gag-free experience. What has changed is that:
1. I am cloaked in an X-ray vest
2. The hygienist runs from the room each time to push the button - about a dozen trips in all (so that she doesn't overdose into the Incredible She-Hulk)
3. I'm cavity-free!
No comments:
Post a Comment