To tell the Tooth
This week featured a trip to the dentist for that semi-annual check and cleaning. I must be one sick puppy--I LIKE going to the dentist; in fact, it borders on LOVE for those dental trips. It is no mistake that I worked as an orthodontist assistant for five years. I have an affinity for teeth, even those covered with last night's food caught in the braces. This trip to the dentist--and the fact that I dropped my toothbrush on the floor in my workplace bathroom--inspire me to write about my love of teeth. (I had wanted to be a dentist when I was growing up. I gave up that idea when I learned that dentists had one of the highest rates of suicides of professionals....makes sense, as almost no one likes the dentist.)

My love of the dental world all started so innocently enough. I was in first grade and I noticed that my "big" teeth were coming in behind my "baby" teeth. You know that song, "All I want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth?" Well, I was singing how I wanted those two front teeth to fall out so I could make room for those new ones popping in. I tried to explain this problem to my mother but as a first grader, this is a difficult thing to do. The baby teeth looked fine--it was just that I could feel the ridges of the adult tooth peeking out behind those cemented-in-the-gums front baby teeth. A trip to the dentist confirmed my thoughts--those teeth were going to have to be pulled out. Before I knew it, those two teeth were in my hand and under my pillow. That was COOL.

I had some ugly teeth. I mean major ugly. They were not placed in a way that could in any way be considered attractive. Thank god for braces (more about that in a minute). Before I could get braces, I had to have all remaining baby teeth and four adult bicuspids extracted. Suffice it to say that I was in my glory when I was told I would need THIRTEEN teeth pulled out in fifth grade. THIRTEEN! I had this problem with ankylose teeth: meaning, the roots of many teeth were bascially part of the surrounding jawbone. THAT'S a problem requiring an oral surgeon. They gotta saw those baby teeth out, as there is no way they would ever fall out on their own. Heaven!

I went to the oral surgeon and asked to watch as they extracted those thirteen teeth. For some reason, they obliged me. Twelve injections of novacaine later, I was good to go. I hate to admit how much I liked watching the oral surgeon & learning about the procedure. With thirteen extracted teeth in hand, I headed home to make a killing from the Tooth Fairy.

You know why I HAD to become an orthodontic assistant? It was fate and payback. See, when I had braces, I didn't do very well with those impressions they would take. In fact, one time I projectile VOMITED when they were trying to take the impression--puke hit the wall. I'm not kidding. I can attest to the possibility of this happening, as while an orthodontic assistant, I witnessed many impression-related pukings and even saw my coworker literally get puke in her hair. There was a lot of vomit involved in that job. I also deserved a stay in the world of orthodontia because I literally RIPPED my braces off the front four teeth when eating Ju-Ju-Bees in Sixth Grade music class. NEVER bite into ju-ju-bees when wearing braces. I wish you could have seen those four bands dangling from the wire. THAT was a hard one to explain to the orthodontist. Or, maybe it was the fact that my dog ate my retainer in eighth grade. Really. I learned as an orthodontic assistant that dogs indeed love retainers and that this problem is quite common. Go figure.

I loved being an orthodontic assistant but the pay sucked and there was no ladder to climb--once an assistant, always an assistant. I moved on to torturing mentally ill people instead. More money, less puke. (It's a sad statement on my earning potential when I say that working in the mental health field pays better than my dental job as it is a well known fact that mental health professional pay sucks, too. Ah well, who said I was in it for the money, anyway? Besides, there seems to be a lot of poop in mental health and that makes up for any lack of salary.)

Then, there were the wisdom teeth in college. Ooooooooh! I asked to stay awake for that, too. Four impacted wisdom teeth--how could I miss that? Removing those crusty crabs wasn't easy--I swear that at one point the oral surgeon had his foot on my face as he was trying to rip that wisdom tooth out. Man, those babies had some roots on them. Four more teeth for the tooth fairy-- rock on!

Back to this week's visit to the dentist. I go in the bathroom at work (for those of you who don't know about the work bathroom, suffice it to say that nothing that hits that floor should EVER be used again--it should be incinerated). I get ready to brush my teeth so they are fresh and pretty for the appointment when I drop the toothbrush on the floor. I look at the floor, I look at the toothbrush, I look in the mirror. What the hell am I supposed to do now? Ugh. The horror--I have to go to the dentist without a last minute brush. (I did throw away the toothbrush, for you sick souls that are wondering about that.) I don't know why this inability to brush my teeth would worry me after living through all those dirty braces I wallowed through while an orthodontic assistant...there were days I literally could not see the braces due to all the food and goop from lack of brushing. I'm worried about this lack of a last minute brushing? Side note: I was in the dental field BEFORE the advent of rubber gloves. Yes, my hands were in people's mouths, digging through that leftover food. Mmmm Mmmm. Almost impossible to believe we didn't use to wear gloves. I was in the group that had to "learn" how to use gloves after not ever having to using gloves. While it seemed less gross to dig in people's mouths with gloves on, it was quite an adjustment. I was also in the era of "HIV just coming to town." Before that event, you'd poke yourself with a wire and think nothing of it--just swear, wash it off, go on with life. After that, poking yourself with a wire scared the shit out of you. Trust me, I went and had HIV blood tests done after that and I did everything in my power NOT poke myself again.

Back to this week. I'm at the dentist, loving every minute of it, relaxing in the chair, thinking about what a wonderful way this is to start the day, hoping that my coffee breath isn't too overwhelming for the hygienist. I would tell you what the hygienist looks like but she's hidden behind a layer of dental armor including mask, glasses, plastic sheild and gloves. My, how the world has changed! Maybe my love of the dentist will change when I finally need a root canal or some gross kind of gum surgery or a cap on some unsuspecting molar. Until then, I am going to floss my teeth with reckless abandon and and remember the good old days of pre-gloved orthodontia.........tasty treat, anyone?