Dr. V

[drafted November 2007 - yes, blog posts sit in my drafts folder for that long!]

Dr. V is Russian. On that day, she wore a lime green outfit that looked like a three-way hybrid between surgical scrubs, pyjamas, and gym sweats. She appeared old enough to be somebody's grandma. In my mind, I juxtaposed an image of her as a grandmother with an image of her as a surgeon. It was a pleasant combination.

Dr. V introduced herself and queried, "So... I understand you have not been to see a dentist in a long time..."
I embarassedly answered, "Um... yes, well, I haven't had dental insurance for quite some time."
"It's okay, that happens," she assured me. "We will just start with some X-rays and general cleaning, and see if there is anything else that needs to be taken care of."

She led me into the dentists' workspace, an area that took me back to my childhood. In those days, I was covered under my parents' dental plan. I actively resisted going to the dentist. I did not like having my mouth propped open for a long time while drool dripped out of my mouth. To me, it was even worse that the dentist would try to make conversation with me. Dentists are generally respected for being well-educated, which should imply that they would have a basic level of intelligence. Nevertheless, I would think that most people who are reasonably intelligent would be able to deduce that you can't have a civil conversation when your mouth is being propped open and drool is dripping out of it.

I had had many long conversations with my parents about why I needed to see a dentist. I did not go see a doctor every year to take care of, for example, my foot and my foot exclusively. I did not see why my teeth required a whole entire separate kind of doctor and one whom I needed to see every year. My parents' best answer was directed along the lines of "but if you don't see one this year, you may not be able to see one next year." This logic did not convince me. Instead, it excited me with the possibility that I might never have to see a dentist again, if only I could find a way to weasel out of going to the dentist this year.

In any case, being taken into Dr. V's and her colleague's workspace reminded me of those times. I looked at all the equipment and the chairs. It was as though nothing had changed in the past two decades. When I was a child, the soft music that played in the dentist's office was a mix of 70s and 80s. In 2007, the soft music that played in the dentist's office was... still a mix of 70s and 80s.

"Have a seat here," Dr. V indicated.

It suddenly struck me that what I was experiencing at the moment had a few major differences from the dentist experiences of my childhood. I had never even heard of a woman dentist when I was a child. There were women who worked in the dentist's office, but they either worked the front desk or were dental hygienists. All of the dentists were male, and the women were there to do the work but not receive any credit. A woman dental hygienist would clean my teeth and take X-rays, then the male dentist would come in and look over her cleaning job, prying my mouth open with his massive thumb. Then he would say something about the X-rays and ask the dental hygienist to do something else while he talked at me, inanely expecting me to be able to answer with his thumb jammed in my mouth.

I suddenly realized that there were no dental hygienists working for Dr. V. Dr. V herself was going to clean my teeth. Dr. V herself had led me from the waiting area into the workspace. Dr. V is a doctor, and Dr. V is a woman. Dr. V made me fear dentists less than I used to.

I sat down and braced myself nonetheless for what I expected would be an unpleasant experience.

"Make yourself comfortable. Relax!" she continued.

I tried to relax. I took the clip out of my hair and let my hair down. I leaned back into the chair. For a moment I pretended as though I were at a hairdresser's.

"We will start with the X-rays, and we will let them develop while I do a basic cleaning of your teeth. Then we will go over your X-ray results together and discuss if we need to do anything else."

It sounded like a good plan to me. I was nervous. I had gone more than 10 years without a dentist appointment, due in part to my dentally uninsured time as a grad student at MIT.

Dr. V began by padding some plastic X-ray film holders with gauze, explaining that the plastic could hurt as it pushed against the soft flesh inside my mouth. I was grateful for the care she took in padding the film holders, but was apprehensive about it still. I started to think of the song "Turning Japanese," and began humming the lyrics to myself in my head:

I want a doctor to take your picture... So I can look at you from inside as well

"Okay, this will hurt a bit..." she said as the plastic cut into the flesh of my mouth. It did hurt.

I closed my eyes and turned up the music in my head.

You've got me turning up and turning down and turning in and turning 'round... I'm turning Japanese, I think I'm turning Japanese...

A friend told me what this song was really about. It still made a good distraction while Dr. V was pressing the plastic things into my mouth. She was taking my picture so that she could look at me from the inside. I wondered how I looked from the inside.

Dr. V thought I looked beautiful inside my mouth. "What beautiful teeth you have," she said. "I am not finding much to clean at all. You must take good care of your teeth."

I admitted that I actually practiced poor dental hygiene, even confessing to her that I usually don't floss. I wouldn't normally confess such a thing to a dentist, but Dr. V made me feel comfortable about admitting my flaws.

"Yes, well I can see why you wouldn't bother. Your teeth are so perfectly straight, I'm sure you don't need to floss." I wondered where Dr. V went to dental school, and why didn't my childhood dentist go there too? Why did I have to be scolded as a young child for not flossing, when, according to Dr. V, I didn't even need to? She continued to praise my allegedly beautiful teeth.

I suppose dentists think that teeth are inherently beautiful. I am guessing that most medical specialists come to find what they chose to study beautiful. I once went to see a dermatologist for a hideous large mole on the bottom of my big toe. I wanted her to freeze it off or cut it out, but she peered at it with a magnifying lens and declared it both beautiful and harmless. Then she refused to do anything about it. On a different visit, I saw the same dermatologist and her trainee for a skin rash over my face. They spent a few minutes admiring my skin. They peered at my face through a magnifying lens and called my skin beautiful, apparently oblivious to the rash. Or perhaps they thought the rash was beautiful?

But I digress. When Dr. V was done cleaning my teeth, she took the developed X-rays and sat next to me. "And now," she said. "Guess what?"

"What?" I asked, apprehensive that I would have to return for a root canal or get a piraty-gold tooth. (Everyone knows I'm not a pirate kind of girl, but rather a ninja.)

"No problems at all... your teeth are just fine." I breathed a sigh of relief. And then I wondered, if I got away with 10 years without seeing a dentist, maybe I could get away with another 10 years?