5-YEARS-OLD
I’m sitting up in bed. It’s very late at night. It might even be the middle of the night when no one is supposed to be awake. At least, no little kids are supposed to be awake.
But I can’t sleep, because I’m too excited and I have something important to do.
I have another loose tooth. It’s about to fall out, but it’s not ready yet. And I don’t want to wait for when it is. I want it out NOW. So, I’m up, and I’m doing the thing I’ve done before. I’m helping it fall out. Because I want the tooth fairy to come tonight.
It’s dark in my room, but I don’t need a light. The tooth is right up front on top. I’m wiggling it back and forth. Then I jiggle it from side to side. It hurts a little. And if it’s anything like the last one, it might bleed. Mommy says blood is hard to get out of sheets and pjs, because it stains. I’ll be very careful.
My tooth fairy is generous; I found out how generous when we were talking about losing our baby teeth in school one day. The other kid’s fairies bring them a quarter. Twenty-five cents. Some only get a dime. That’s ten pennies. Those kids can still get some good candy, but not as much as I can get. There’s a candy store next door to my school and some of us go there every day before we go home.
My fairy brings me a dollar every time I lose a tooth. It’s always brand new. The paper is crisp and clean; it’s crackly. I know the tooth fairy is really Daddy, but I pretend because he likes being a fairy so much.
He always smiles and looks really happy when I show him my dollar bill in the morning after I’ve “lost” one of my teeth.
7-YEARS-OLD
Dr. Chester B. Rackson is bending over me, my mouth wide open so he can poke around in there. Oh! He found one. A cavity. I’m looking up at him, a paper bib around my neck, my jaw is aching from holding my mouth open for so long. He’s so close I can see his nose hair, hanging out of his nostrils. He’s exhaling his sour breath all over my face. I can feel it against my skin, it’s creepy.
I don’t like Dr. Rackson. He’s smelly and bald, and he calls my mom, “Tiger,” and kind of growls when he says it. That doesn’t feel right to me, it’s icky. He shouldn’t call her that. He tells me he has to fix my cavity and is going to give some happy gas. I don’t know what that is, but he puts a mask over my nose and mouth and tells me to inhale the sweet-smelling air.
Suddenly, I hear a train whistle toot; it sounds just like the one on Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. Only that’s a trolley, not a train…What? It’s right here. The trolley! I’m riding it. And Mr. Rogers is there, and King Friday, and Lady Elaine and Lady Aberlin! I love Lady Aberlin, she’s so pretty and gentle. They’re all here with me. I’m in Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood! We talk and laugh, and then I hear the whistle again, and everything gets blurry, and I start hearing sounds that turn into voices talking, and I’m back in the chair and Dr. Rackson is still bending over me.
He straightens up, and says, “Okay, kiddo. You’re done, you can grab a lollipop on your way out. Don’t forget to brush, and you need to start using the WaterPik more often.” And to mom, he says, “See ya later, Tiger!”
I look at Mommy, and ask, “Jack in the Box?” I always get a chocolate shake when we’re finished at the dentist.
Looking back at this incident, I realize I’d recently written an essay and I said I’d never tripped before. I’ve reconsidered my earlier assessment. It’s clear I was mistaken. Hallucinating Mr. Rogers is no small thing.
11-YEARS-OLD
At eleven, I started seeing another dentist in addition to smelly Dr. Rackson. This one was a an orthodontist. Braces. His name was Dr. Henig. Herbert Henig. I called him Herbie in my head, like the movie about the car, The Love Bug. He was in the army once, and he had a silvery crew-cut. I liked him. He was serious and very clean. He didn’t smell bad, and he called my mother “Mrs. Tepper” or “Diane” once he got to know her better. He wore ugly black shoes that laced up the sides. They looked like the shoes Herman Munster wore. My mom told me they were called Murray Space Shoes. They were orthopedic. I didn’t know what that was. They were supposed to be good for people who had to stand on their feet all day.
They were the ugliest shoes I ever saw, until I saw a pair of Birkenstocks.
When Dr. Henig explained braces to me, I asked him if he could leave the gap between my two front teeth. I loved my gap. People in my mom’s family had gaps. It was a thing.
He chuckled at my request, thinking it silly, because the gap was one of the things that needed fixing. I thought my gap was beautiful. I wanted to keep it. No dice.
He took impressions. He used those metal plates that always felt way too big for my mouth. They were filled with gloppy gray goop that made me gag when they shoved it in and the minute they told me to breathe through my nose, I’d get all stuffed up and panicky. When I saw that metal plate coming at me, I’d start to gag in anticipation. Dr. Henig’s nurse would stand with me while it hardened, trying to keep me calm, and holding a small garbage can under my chin in case I puked. I hate to puke, so that made my anxiety worse. Braces went on for years. The rubber bands, the impressions, the tightening, the night brace contraption strapped to my head that made it hard to sleep. The retainers, top and bottom, that made their own impression in such a way that I would dream I was still wearing them for years afterward. Yes, my teeth were straightened and my gap was gone.
I’ve told you these anecdotes because it was just the beginning of a lifetime of dental misery. My teeth? They’ve been a source of pain and shame. They’ve represented financial hardship and I experience frustration and anxiety whenever I have to get work done.
BRIEF INTERLUDE
When I was a kid, I was good about brushing my teeth, though my WaterPik and flossing skills could have been better. I’d get lazy and skip it sometimes. My parents modeled great diligence in caring for their teeth. My family was genetically predisposed to having shitty teeth. Both sides. Perhaps there was too much intermarriage in the shtetl?
My folks flossed and Pik-ed and brushed and stimmed their gums, to no avail. Every day, they’d roll their molars up that hill, only to have them roll back down, right into their dentist’s chairs (and wallets). They dealt with an endless cycle of fillings, crowns, bridges, root canals, extractions, periodontal disease, and implants.
My dental problems were inscribed in the book of life before I was born and the health issues I experienced later would further compound those challenges. Years of taking antidepressants caused relentless dry mouth. Bobby Bacteria and Daisy Decay were squatters living in my mouth and I was their unwilling landlord for decades. It seemed there was nothing I could do to evict them.
I avoided seeing the dentist through my twenties and some of my thirties, because I was broke. I’d only go for emergencies.
34-YEARS-OLD
When I was in my mid thirties, I convinced my dad to bankroll a dental restoration to remove and replace my silver fillings with safer materials. I’d read that removing the mercury might cure my depression and maybe even my epilepsy. It didn’t work, but the dentist who did the work––a sweetheart named Bruce Sorrin, got me over my dental fear––and I learned that the epinephrine in Novocain was the reason my heart raced at every procedure. Going forward, I switched to Carbocain. No epi. No more anxiety, no more pounding heartbeat and shortness of breath.
Well, except when the bill came.
55-YEARS-OLD
Nine years ago, I had a seizure that was so bad, my lower teeth were displaced from their sockets. A sweet and apologetic-in-advance ER doc re-seated my loose teeth by having me bite down on a thick compress, hard. He warned me that it would hurt, a lot.
He was right.
58-YEARS-OLD
Six years ago, my highly skilled but emotionally absent dentist (who shall remain nameless), informed me that my old dental work had failed. I would require five extractions of my upper molars. Three on one side, two on the other. When she told me, I started to cry in the chair. She stood there, cold, unresponsive, offering no comfort or compassion. A pat on my shoulder, or saying “I’m so sorry,” would have gone a long way in that moment.
She seemed absolutely puzzled at my reaction. As puzzled as I was at her lack of empathy.
She didn’t understand the shame I was feeling at the thought of being toothless, of not being able to afford what I needed to restore my mouth to some kind of wholeness. I felt like I was rotting.
I wonder if the curriculum in dental school covers the emotional impact of not having a healthy mouth and a full set of teeth. Do they teach about the negative effect it has on a person’s self-esteem, well-being and health?
I wonder if they bother to discuss compassion at all.
My teeth were in ruin. The commitment I’d made to taking care of them didn’t seem to matter; the dental cleanings I scheduled every three months for years, didn’t matter. To restore my mouth with implants would have cost me a fortune I didn’t have. And of course there’s no insurance for work like this.
Because the insurance industry doesn’t believe that our teeth are part of our bodies. Fancy that.
I’d already shelled out $26,000 for four implants and extensive bone grafts. I couldn’t do it again. My only option was a partial upper denture, and I couldn’t pay for that at the time. My mother helped me. I stopped seeing this dentist after she made the partial for me. I was so crushed, that I didn’t have the emotional resources to get a second opinion.
62-YEARS-OLD
I wore that denture for almost 3 years, until one day, I couldn’t anymore. I had trouble eating with it, I was self-conscious all the time, and sometimes I chose not to wear it at all, because it was so uncomfortable. And sibilant esses became the hiss of each day.
I didn’t know how I would pay for implants but I had to make it happen.
I needed a new dentist and made my way to the man who was kind of a rock star in the community I spend the most time in: Woodstock. His name is Bruce Milner, and he’s well-known for his big personality, his eccentric nature, and his generosity. This is a guy who’ll meet you at his office at 10:30 on a Friday night to re-cement a crown, unless he’s playing music somewhere.
The name of his practice is Transcend Dental. For real. It’s Woodstock. He’s also infamous for sneaking into cultural events without paying, but don’t tell. I find that quality in him endearing. He’s got barter agreements for dentistry with business owners all over town. I knew him from around, mostly because he gate-crashed the story slam I perform in, more than once. I knew lots of people who saw him and loved him, so I went, and asked for help.
We had a brief meeting and x-rays and he told me he’d fix my mouth. And, we’d work out the money. I burst into tears again, and this time, I didn’t get a pat on the shoulder; I got a real hug offered with love.
In the 1960s, he was kind of a real rock star––that may be a bit hyperbolic. He was a member of the band, Every Mother’s Son. The group was a short-lived success, their only top 40 hit was “Come on Down to My Boat.” He has a keyboard in his office waiting room, and in between patients, he sits down and noodles around; he’s also plays the keyboard and sings backup vocals for a local Dylan tribute band, The Bob Cats. Yeah. It’s Woodstock.
Thanks to this wonderful man, this mensch, I was able to have the work done. I’m paying it off slowly, because he understands how prohibitive the cost can be and he never wants money to be a barrier for me to get help. He’s like Robin Hood, except for the tights.
I’m carrying debt in the thousands and I’ll be spending more to improve the appearance and function of my old, worn-out teeth; some are chipped, some discolored, there may be a missing filling or two. I’ve lost track of how many crowns, root canals, implants, and fillings I have in my mouth, and how many teeth I’ve lost over time.
I’ve come to a grudging acceptance that my teeth are problematic and that’s one of the things that makes me special.
I would prefer to not be that special.
So much of my identity is wrapped up in my interactions with others. How I’m met by the people in my world and how I, in turn, meet them. I have a great smile. I don’t ever want to feel that I can’t share that part of me; my radiant smile that conveys joy, enthusiasm, and love.
When you become a paid subscriber you help me by making the time I put into my writing possible. It’s less than $5/month for an annual subscription, and you get to be one of my matrons of the arts!
If you’re broke, but want to express your thanks, you can click the heart “♥️” to “like” my essay, or the speech bubble “💬” to comment, and use the spinny arrow thingy “🔄” to share/restack to the Substack community.
Tips are welcome and always appreciated. If subscriptions aren’t your thing, but you still want to say thanks, this is way to do just that. Teeth are expensive!
