There is a commonly held belief that people can age gracefully. Frankly, I can’t see how that’s possible, any more than it would be for a car in the 200,000 mile range. By the time you hit your 50s, things like getting out of bed in the morning become complex maneuvers, involving movements that must be made carefully to minimize pain and trauma to creaky joints. If you make it past 60 in one piece, consider yourself lucky, even if there is nothing graceful about tying your shoelaces, when your back protests and your belly gets in the way. Thankfully, these signals of aging are not usually witnessed by others, so you can begin your day with an air of grace … until you remember that it is Tuesday, your date with the dentist.
With age comes the cold reality that formerly strong and healthy teeth turn on you with a vengeance. If they don’t plop out in the middle of dinner with a business associate, they crack, they decay faster and you know you are soon to lose them. The worst-case scenario is extraction, an experience that can range from easily forgettable to as horrifying as a train wreck, particularly if it involves a broken molar lodged solidly in your jaw. Ultimately, the time arrives when the men are separated from the boys, so to speak. I happen to be one of the boys, despite my advancing years, capable of concocting outrageous lies as excuses to cancel appointments. The receptionist must wonder why so many people in my family are dying. I’m down to my sister-in-law’s Aunt Edna, God bless her, or did I already use her? You would be well served to avoid my stupidity by keeping a running log of all of your fictional calamities.
Well, let’s get down to the nitty-gritty. Shall we talk about the extraction process for a few moments? The most important thing to remember is that your dentist is dedicated to making the experience as painless as possible. If you are fortunate to have one of the new breed of upscale dentists, you might even get a movie. With nitrous oxide, it could be the best flick you have ever seen. Unfortunately, movie time is sometimes cut short when the extraction turns out to be more than simply routine. You will know that when your dentist reaches into his special toolbox for insanely terrifying instruments, one of which bears a strong resemblance to a small crowbar. When you see that, you can hardly be faulted for anticipating that a blowtorch will be next.
In the event that you begin to worry about chopping sounds that suggest a hammer and chisel are in use, it is time for you to close your eyes and remind yourself that this is not an auto mechanic working on your mouth. I know, sometimes the gas distorts things, but try to focus on the fact that your dentist is a trained professional who doesn’t want to be late for his tennis date. The broken tooth will come out, he tells you, though it might be a bit “uncomfortable.” Don’t even try to figure out what that means. It’s just another way for medical professionals to avoid the word “painful.” What you should be mindful of is that your dentist may seem to be oblivious to your situation. Gagged with tools and tubes, numbed with Novocain, there’s not much you can say when he asks you what you thought of the Dallas/New England game.
As the hammering and chiseling continues, you’ll begin to adapt to the chopping noise reverberating in your head. Eventually, the chopping stops. That should be your signal to prepare for the grand finale, the unveiling of the giant stainless steel pliers, your cue to get ready for the ultimate confrontation with “uncomfortable.” As you feel yourself being pulled out of the chair, you will know that all of the Novocain and nitrous oxide in the world will not stem the agony of extraction by brute force. Hopefully, during this special moment, when words like “butcher” come to mind to describe the maniac hovering above you, there will be time to recall the law of physics about leverage. Even if you slept through that class in high school, you’ll realize that his strength against the weight of your body will prevail, and suddenly you will feel that pop as the tooth comes free. Victory!
True to established custom, your dentist holds the tooth up to eye level for your inspection, the end result of his labor, as if he just delivered a baby boy. “Look at that,” he says proudly, “that thing was practically welded in there, but we got it.” With that, he turns off the nitrous and gives the final pronouncement – “rinse,” as if it’s something you can do when you can’t even feel your mouth. If you are a cynic like me, you’ll regard this as the “humiliation phase,’ as you slobber and drool while the pretty assistant watches intently. You need not be embarrassed as globs of bloody saliva hang like strands of spaghetti from your lips. She has seen it all before. Admittedly, there is nothing graceful about groveling over that little bowl, but at least you’ll know you have what it takes to go through this, which you will probably do again, and again. There is considerable grace in courage.
After giving yourself a pat on the back, you’ll realize there is one more thing that must be done before you leave. There is a throbbing pain where that tooth once lived. In spite of the numbness which makes speech difficult, you ask your dentist for a “prffrrffrm fa’ pay.”
“What?” he asks impatiently, looking at you like you have two heads. You repeat your request, pointing to your jaw where the pain is. This time he gets it and writes a prescription that only a cryptographer can read. Like the lollipop your barber gave you when you were such a brave youngster, the prescription is your dentist’s way of rewarding you for not strangling him when he was pulling you out of the chair.
You leave the office with a bit of a strut, like a battle-hardened soldier, prescription and card for your next appointment gripped firmly in hand. There should be no doubt in your mind that you will show up next week, unless something awful happens to your uncle Henry’s niece’s brother-in-law.