A visit to the dentist

My son, Conor, rarely loses his baby teeth the old-fashioned way. By that I mean, a tooth gets loose, you wiggle it, and wiggle it some more, grossing out your friends and family by tilting it ninety degrees from upright, until one day the dang thing pops out between your fingers. No, that would be too easy. In my son’s case, the baby tooth gets a little bit loose, then the permanent tooth shoots up through the gum behind it and the baby tooth has to be extracted at the dentist’s office.

Last week we noticed that both of Conor’s lower lateral incisors had permanent counterparts poking up through his gums. A double extraction. Great.

I know that dentistry has improved over the years and is not as painful as the old days. The problem is: I grew up in the old days and remember a lot of excruciating trips to the dentist. I lost a permanent molar when I was about twelve. The tooth had a deep cavity and probably needed a root canal – a big money fix for my family in those days. My father knew of a dentist who offered discounted rates. In retrospect, I suspect it was because of a suspended license. This was not our regular dentist. My father took me to see this guy. This was not a regular thing, either. It was usually my mother’s job. I put two and two together and figured out that my father had taken me to see this guy (probably without my mother’s knowledge), to save some money. I’m sure Dad figured this guy would do a fine job. Good enough.

When we arrived at the dentist’s office, I was the only patient. It was a dingy place. I smelled alcohol on the dentist’s breath, despite the fact that it was only mid-morning. The dentist, I don’t remember his name or, mercifully, what he looked like, peered into my mouth for about five seconds and pronounced that the tooth would have to come out. No x-rays, no plan B. A fee was discussed. I believe it was $5. *

I was numbed up with Novocain. Presumably, the needle was…well, let’s not go there. Molars are big teeth. Even a twelve year old’s molars have deep roots. The dentist went at the tooth with a pliers-like tool, or maybe they were pliers. I wasn’t in a position to ask questions. I can, to this day, hear the cracking noise my tooth made when it finally gave up and sent the dentist flying backwards. Thinking about it can still make my skin crawl.

So, despite the fact that we now live in the relatively golden age of “painless dentistry,” the thought of my son having his baby teeth pulled is a source of much anxiety for me. I’ve known for a couple of days now that it would be me who took him to the dentist this time around – for the double extraction!! I have been fretting about it ever since. Conor, on the other hand, hasn’t given it a second thought. No big deal for him. He’s been through this many times before. He’s a real trouper. Not me. All day today, I walked around at work thinking to myself, “Oh my God, we’re having our teeth pulled; we’re having our teeth pulled.”

Of course, “we” got through it. Conor was comfortably numb. First with laughing gas; then with topical anesthetic; and finally with Novocain. Still, there was that cracking noise. I heard it. Twice. Click. Click. Conor winced slightly both times. I nearly screamed.

When it was over, I took him home. Put him in front of the TV. Made him a plate of spaghetti (soft food only tonight). Gave him some Ibuprofen. Put him in a warm bath. He’s doing fine. Me? Well, I’m getting there. Two tumblers of Scotch later, I can finally write about it.

*Twenty years after that fateful day, it cost me $1600 in reconstructive dental work to fix the mistake.