Do You Have Enemies? At Least One, The Dentist
Stories for a weekend
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| Juan Carlos Ulate / Reuters |
Elaine Godfrey
Atlantic Staff Writer
My dentist is my enemy.
Clean Teeth, Weak Spirit
A black-and-white photo of a dentist wearing a face mask and holding up tools
(Peter Macdiarmid / Getty)
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When you’re a kid, the dentist’s office is a frightening place full of loud noises and sharp instruments. But at least people speak softly to you, and at the end of all the scraping and scrubbing, you get a pat on the back and a little prize from a treasure box.
When you are an adult, there are no prizes. There is only pain.
The dentist’s office is the only place in the modern healthcare system where I still expect to be unrelentingly shamed. My normal doctor tolerates me well enough, and the nurse who takes my blood pressure there is always warm and kind. My dermatologist laughs at my jokes. But my dental hygienist? She would never.
Seconds after entering the exam room, the hygienist—let’s call her Deb—is annoyed. She looks at the screen to see what she is dealing with and sighs as if to say, You again. She snaps on her rubber gloves. “All the way up,” Deb says, because I am not yet reclined on the chair. I smile nervously and go horizontal, as instructed, my legs sticking to the vinyl.
It’s important to mention, before we go any further, that I have a decent set of chompers. They are relatively straight, and a color I will call “pleasantly off-white.” I have never had a cavity as an adult; I do not drink soft drinks; I do not regularly eat candy. My breath is … fine, I think. Could I be flossing more? Sure. Should I be brushing more gently? Probably. But I am, at least in my own estimation, a pretty good—if not ideal—dental patient. Deb does not agree.
If I am due for an X-ray, Deb will spend the next few minutes jamming pointy shapes into all corners of my mouth, ignoring when I wince. Surely an X-ray would be a cinch, you might think to yourself. But you would be wrong. Normal body X-rays are straightforward and painless. Dental X-rays are stabby and pinchy. How have we, as a society, not yet found a pain-free way to send electromagnetic waves through jaws? I cannot ask Deb this question, because she is elbow-deep in my mouth, wedging plastic into my gums.
Next, we begin the cleaning process, which is very complex and involves more sighing from Deb. First, she scrapes the plaque off of my teeth with a tool that is ominously called a “scaler” and sounds like nails on a chalkboard. Then she uses her mechanical brush to grind gravelly mint toothpaste across my molars. So far, so good, I tell myself, breathing through it. Then the flossing begins. Deb performs the first vigorous round with regular floss, which breaks at least once. My gums burn and bleed. “Are we flossing regularly?” Deb asks, tilting her head to give me a better view of her judgmental frown. “Yes, but not this hard,” I reply. Then Deb does a second round of flossing with some kind of ice-cold water spout, and I dissociate.
After my soul has returned to my body, Deb offers to do a fluoride treatment for an additional $30 out of pocket. “No, thank you,” I reply politely, spitting blood into the sink. Deb frowns and says, “Next time.”
Now the dentist appears. In real life, I might find this smiling, bespectacled man sweet. But here, in this place, he is my enemy. He studies my X-rays and tells me the good news: no cavities, all clear. I start to feel hopeful; he starts to sell me Invisalign. He tells me how small and dangerously close together my teeth are. “You don’t have any issues now, but without Invisalign, you could have some serious problems down the road,” he says, a grave expression on his face. But I have already fallen for this once, when I purchased an ill-fitting Invisalign night guard for $300. “No, thank you,” I say again. I just want to go home.
“Get a new dentist!” you might advise. I have thought of this, my friend. Shopping for a new healthcare provider requires time and motivation that I simply don’t have. But much more important, a new dentist doesn’t seem likely to solve the problem. Because the problem is with dentistry itself. It goes beyond the judgy bedside manner: The whole industry seems too focused on selling products and too eager to overtreat patients with expensive procedures. Plus, many standard dental treatments are “not well substantiated by research,” as Ferris Jabr once wrote in this magazine.
The dentist digs around in my mouth for a while, his cold metal tools clinging and clanging together. After a moment, he clears his throat and asks the very last question I am expecting to hear: “So, do you think Donald Trump could really win?” It is kind of my dentist to remember that I work as a political reporter; I’m sure he’s trying to brighten up this experience for me. But the only thing more unpleasant than trying to talk with your mouth full of sharp metal instruments is trying to talk about the 2024 presidential election with your mouth full of sharp metal instruments. I force a smile, as my mouth hangs open like a snake’s unhinged lower jaw. “Who knows!” I muster.
Finally, it’s over. My teeth are glimmering, but my spirit is weak. When I leave the room, Deb and the dentist watch me, their eyes downcast, as though they’re reluctant to let my teeth go home with me.
My ego will be sore for a week. So will my mouth. I have a cap on one of my front teeth because of an unfortunate apple incident a few years back. Two weeks ago at the dentist’s, that cap came loose after some overeager flossing and digging. I can feel it right now, wiggling slightly in the front of my mouth, taunting me. I’m trying to ignore it because the truth is hard to face: The only fix is a return to the dentist.
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