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English-speaking dentist
Wednesday, March 19 2003
Gretchen had set us both up with dental appointments for this morning at a dental office out on Hurley Avenue in Kingston. I would never voluntarily set myself up with dental appointment unless I was experiencing some sort of dental emergency (such as happened at a dentally-disfiguring punk rock show in Blacksburg, VA in the Fall of 1994). I generally contract-out most of my logistical chores to my significant other, whoever that happens to be. In the summer of 2000 that was Bathtubgirl, and she set me up with a dental appointment at a corner mini-mall in West LA. The resulting fillings have never been comfortable, and I've been skeptical of the craft of modern dentistry since getting them installed. In fact, prior to today's appointment, I'd been seriously entertaining the idea of canceling, perhaps pulling a "let's not and say we did."
But no, I was a good boy and went at the appointed time. In the end, the official report filed concerning the state of the inside of my mouth was not nearly as bad as had feared. I have a single cavity that needs filling and a large filling that is "leaking" and needs to be replaced. Then, of course, there's a crown which needs to be installed in place of my discolored and berootcanaled punk rock tooth. I was supposed to get that crown two and a half years ago, but I had so little faith in my West LA mini-mall dentist that I canceled.
I don't mean to be jingoistic, but it makes a huge difference when your dentist speaks fluent English. In West LA, my dentist was an Iranian immigrant and spoke in damaged English. She didn't do much to voluntarily demystify the state of my mouth, but even when she did tell me things, it wasn't always clear what she'd said. Now every time I drink a glass of cold water I get the feeling I'm being paid back for years of American support for the ineptly despotic Shah Muhammad Rehza Pullavi. By contrast, today's dentist was an affable Jewish guy who actually apologized for his technical dialogue with his assistant. He showed me the x-ray of the metal rod running down the axis of my punk rock tooth and took his time to explain the methods by which dentists install comfortable fillings. The only downside to the experience was the music, which consisted of a CD compilation of solid elevator music gold. I could tell that this wasn't an oversight when the dentist began humming along. Gretchen told me later that he had, on his own initiative, made an anti-war outburst.
In dental news that applies to both of us, Gretchen and I were told to abandon baking soda toothpaste, since, according to our dentist, it appears to be eroding away our gums prematurely.
After the dental appointment, I drove out to the abandoned train on the Esopus Valley and looted a few more things from it, particularly a set of tongue-and-groove boards that had fallen off a little wooden table we'd looted earlier. I was very happy to find these - they could have easily been burned up years ago by squatting gutterpunks in need of a fire.
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