A few months ago, I wrote a Dot-Moms piece about my fear of doctors.
I'm not actually afraid of doctors -- but I had neglected my health for so long that I was afraid of what my doctor would tell me.
Now dentists... there's a medical profession that scares the be-gee-zes out of me.
I come by my fear rationally. When I was in the third grade, my pediatric dentist informed my parents that I had acquired 21 cavities.
That's right, 21 cavities. For an 8-year-old, that's practically one in every tooth.
Now that I'm a parent myself (and responsible for my own daughter's dental health), I better appreciate how dismayed my mom and dad must have been at learning this. I mean, I freaked out at the bill when Megan came home with three cavities -- and we have good dental insurance. I cannot imagine what my 21 cost my parents.
Not that this was a picnic for me, either. It was the first time I can remember really disappointing my mom and dad. I felt guilty -- and ashamed. A couple of months later, a school dentist came to my third-grade class to examine the students' teeth. Kids with a clean bill of dental health were given a white certificate with a little gold medallion. Kids with cavities got a green slip of paper alerting their parents that they weren't taking good care of their children's dental needs. I knew what I was going to get, and I couldn't bear it -- so I hid under the teacher's desk and would not come out until she assured me that I would not have to let the school dentist look at my mouth, and therefore would not be receiving the dreaded green slip.
It took the better part of a year to have all those teeth filled, sometimes going four a pop, with my mouth wide open to accommodate all the screw-type apparatuses the pediatric dentist used to pack the mercury amalgam in.
The following year, I finished my checkup with just one cavity (as if there was any room in my mouth for any new ones to form!). But the dentist told my folks that my sister had 20. That's when they decided to get a second opinion. They brought us in to their own dentist.
"He does beautiful work," the dentist exclaimed, as he poked around my fillings.
In the end, he only found three cavities in my sister's teeth, and we never went back to our old dentist. I stayed with Dr. Adams until he retired in the early 1980's, and then continued on with the man who bought his practice. After all, I don't even like to try out new hairdressers – so you can understand why I wasn't in the market for another dentist -- even though driving all the way to his downtown office became progressively difficult for me after Megan was born and we'd moved out to the northernmost stretches of the San Fernando Valley.
Traffic became the biggest issue. A morning appointment meant that I would be stuck in the bumper-to-bumper daily commute on the Hollywood freeway. An afternoon appointment meant that I wouldn't be able to make it back in time to pick Megan up from school at 2:35. For a while, I was able to do it if I scheduled my appointment to coincide with her Brownie meetings; I didn't have to get her on those days until 4:30.
But Girl Scouts is one of the activities we had to give up when Megan was tapped for her gymnastics team. And making my own dental appointments was another one – even though I'm the type of person who needs a cleaning every three months.
Before I knew it, three years had passed. And as with the ob/gyn, the longer I went without, the more afraid I was of what would happen when I finally went. By the beginning of this year, I had good reason to believe that I needed gum surgery.
It eventually occurred to me that if I couldn't get over the hill for a dental appointment, I would have to find someone who could help me closer to home. I know, that sounds like a no-brainer, but I was truly afraid of what how I would be treated by someone new, who didn't know me. I was afraid of being judged. I felt like that little girl who hid under her teacher's desk.
As my new year's resolutions all involved doing whatever it would take to fix all the niggling things that are wrong with myself, I decided to take the chance. I wandered over to 1-800-Dentist, entered in my zip code, found a referral and called the office. The women there sounded nice and non-judgmental. I made an appointment.
And then I spent the next two weeks dreading it.
By the time I walked into the practice's 60's era office, I felt like a woman about to face her executioner.
He introduced himself as "Dr. Mike." He was very young, and reassuring, announcing that he specialized in full-mouth reconstructions and had seen way worse mouths than mine.
"Whoa. You really have had a lot of dental work," he said.
Yeah, I thought. Did he not hear me tell him about the year I had 21 cavities?
As he examined me, I tried not to think about what torture awaited me. I was grateful for the huge picture window that looked out upon lush landscaping and trees that almost hid the McDonald's sign in the next parking lot. I watched some birds flit around the shrubbery.
"We have feeders out there to encourage the birds. The patients like to watch them," Dr. Mike said.
I tried not to gaze at the huge computer monitor Dr. Mike was referring to as he examined my teeth. I wasn't surprised that the digital revolution has come to dental offices; I'm just not sure when. My old dentist was a solo practitioner and did not use this type of technology; at least not the last time I visited him, three years ago. The geek in me was impressed that the x-rays were now done digitally and that my file could be accessed from any of the examining rooms.
Dr. Mike had good news: "You don't need surgery."
My relief at this didn't last very long, as he then pointed out all the other kinds of dental work I'm going to need. Let's just say that fixing my teeth is going to cost us more than the braces my daughter will soon be getting.
And that's not all. Dr. Mike introduced me to the person who would soon inflict the most torture upon me: a pretty woman in pink scrubs, named Jackie, a dental hygienist. She was going to give me a "superficial cleaning" then… but I would have to come back for a "deep cleaning."
Those are words that sound fine when you are referring to the grout on your bathtub, or a nice facial. They are terrifying when it comes to your teeth. Especially when Jackie explained that I would have to make two appointments to have it done.
"Most patients don't like to have their whole mouth numbed at once. You do need to eat, you know."
I ended up making two consecutive appointments on the same day. It took a total of EIGHT shots of novocaine (four per side) to numb me enough for Jackie to scrape off three years of accumulated tartar and junk.
It was as bad as I'd anticipated. My fear of dentistry was in full swing and this time, the scene outside the window was little help. Neither was the wonder of their computer programming. That was so last week.
It sounds shallow, but I finally calmed down by thinking of Elizabeth Edwards, who had just announced that her cancer had returned. If she can smile in the face of cancer, I thought, I could surely get through a little dental agony.
And I thought of other women I know who are bravely – and quietly – living their lives to the fullest, despite the pain and discomfort of their treatment. I am fortunate not to be in that particular boat right now.
I went home and made an additional donation to the Susan G. Komen fund. It's the least I could do... before my dental bills bankrupt me.
