'Bred Crumbs

D(entist)-Day

The letter from my dentist raised eyebrows.

He was announcing that he was leaving the office he shared with several other dentists and moving to his own office: "Advanced Dentistry, The Art of the Smile." Already concerned that the dental office had a title, much less a subtitle, I read on. The announcement touted top equipment and "a uniquely designed interior. We expect our office to be photographed in dental journals later this year."

(Following the logical trail: "He's not much of a gynecologist, but his office was on Cribs.")

The letter listed several features of the new office that, either because of their luxury or their implications, were alarming:

• Multimedia patient presentation and education
• Conscious sedation
• DVD movies and XM satellite radio
• Automated sterilization center

But he's a good dentist, and his magnificently nice hygienists moved with him, so off I went to my first appointment at the new place. My concerns about opulence evaporated quickly. The office, with its comfy foyer couches and deep-blue walls, was much more comforting than the old one, where the reception area looked like a law office and the work area screamed cubicle. And the technology hit me right in my geeky soul. There was a flat-screen monitor attached right to the chair. The dentist examined my mouth with a pen-light camera, and the results appeared immediately on the screen, in clickable thumbnails (along with occasional pop-up alerts notifying him that another patient had checked in). He sorted, labeled, and expanded the thumbnails, revealing my mouth in rich digital detail.

Too rich. A parade of bad news spilled forth, in high resolution. There are very small cavities developing, needing to be filled. I'm apparently still grinding my teeth at night, and the enamel is visibly wearing away, so here comes sleeping with a mouthguard for the rest of my life.

Worst of all, the recurring buildup I've been combatting (lamely, it seems) on the back of my front lower teeth has captured the flag. Tartar is building, the gums are softening, and I've been sentenced to four cleanings a year. Plus, within the next month, two "deep cleanings," requiring numbing.

While the hygienist got ready for my regular cleaning, my dentist launched on the flat-screen a video detailing the evil to which I had let my mouth succumb. It was a work of terroristic propaganda rivaling anything on the Fox Spin Channel. First, it went into excruciating detail about how an army of bacteria would exploit the weakness of my gums, until it eroded the bone below irrevocably, at which point my teeth would fall out and, I inferred, my entire jaw would drop right off my skull. Next I was told how the bacteria, having gained a permament beachhead, could invade my bloodstream and help clog my coronary arteries. Then, in a flanking maneuver, they would lay siege to my brain until the capital fell.

Wow, they never told us that when I was a kid. Brush or you'll have a heart attack. And a stroke.

By now the hygienist had started the cleaning, the piped-in lite rock was drowning out the video's sound, and I was completely depressed, so all the explanation of the "ultrasonic scaling" to prevent my annihilation was lost on me. We finished the cleaning, and I left the place downtrodden, forever associating the fine new office with my doom. I wanted to do nothing more than go home and begin decomposing already.

But by the time I left the subway at Church and Market, practical needs had moved to the forefront, and despite the clear warning that I should basically never risk eating again, I went to the grocery. There, the ample male beauty of the Castro Safeway* lifted my mood, and by the time I got home, I dared fate. I ate something.

And a cheer went up from the microscopic troops crouched on the Spielbergian beaches of my gums, as they rushed headlong into the breach.

·  ·  ·

* The patrons of the Castro Safeway are always uncommonly attractive, sometimes astonishingly so. Back when we were prepping for Thanksgiving, the sheer gorgeousness surrounding us prompted Robbie to ask, "What is this, the Night the Supermodels Go Shopping?"

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