What is it with Americans and their teeth? They obsess over dental hygiene; making regular trips for expensive treatments to ensure that their smiles are always white. Sounds a little gay to me.
Not like we Brits. We will happily cultivate a festering mouthful of disease rather than risk a visit to the house of pain. Or maybe it’s just me.
It wasn’t always so. When I was young I was happy to visit the dentist as often as possible. This was because my grandfather was a dentist and a filling-free visit to his chair meant a monetary reward; and I was always up for a monetary reward. And indeed I managed to maintain a perfect set of teeth until my grandfather died. Post-grandfather, there was the occasional filling, and the memorably horrible removal of all my wisdom teeth; but my gnashers remain mainly intact; albeit slightly less white than they used to be.
On the rare occasions I visit a dentist, they cheerily tell me “see you in six months for a check-up”, as I shamble out of the room with drool flecking my lips and a promise of agony once the anesthetic has worn off. “Phluggle” I spit in response which would come out as “you must be fucking joking” if I hadn’t had my mouth temporarily paralysed.
It’s been a good four years since I last went to the dentist and I had no intention of ever going again; but increasing sensitivity in a couple of areas of my mouth were becoming progressively worse and it seemed likely that this would develop into full-blown toothache before I was called to the lord; so I made an appointment.
I use the same dentist as my wife, and we have both chosen here for the same reason. We have no idea as to her qualifications, experience, equipment or general worth as a dentist; all we care about is that she is gentle. Her name is Doctor Bee.
She speaks softly, moves with care around your mouth as if it were some hallowed ground not to be disturbed (which of course it is, if you ignore the rampant decay) and sings while she works. She is the guardian angel of teeth and I wouldn’t use anyone else.
So yesterday I sank into her chair and awaited the worst. Other dentists prod your teeth with metal torture instruments, Doctor Bee wafts something over the top of them; as if your canines are being caressed by soft summer breezes (I may be getting carried away here).
Eventually she pronounced the verdict:
There are three teeth where the top has been worn away, perhaps by brushing too hard. I just need to fill those.
No decay?
No.
So, you don’t have to drill my teeth?
No.
No anaesthetic required?
No. I think I love you.
I didn’t actually say that, I didn’t actually think that, but was immensely relieved. Twenty minutes of painless treatment and I was out the door.
“See you back in six months for a check-up” was her farewell remark. This time I could have clearly articulated “you must be fucking joking”; but I limited myself to throaty laugh that could be interpreted either way. Although, after yesterday’s triumph, I am considering the Dr. Bee teeth whitening treatment. No idea what method she uses, but I know it won’t hurt.