Loving your dentist

Almost fiction doesn't:

The dentist is the only doctor you visit feeling well and leaving in a state of pain. ItÂ’s like if you went in for your yearly physical and the physician punched you in the face and smashed your groin with a metal bat.

I used to love my dentist. I went every three months and enjoyed being told I had good oral hygiene and keep up the good work, including visiting him every three months. He gave me unlimited toothpaste, dental threaders, and dental floss. I figured I was saving money not having to buy these necessities.

On my last visit, there was a sea change. I had a toothache. Suddenly my mouth was in crisis, as the dentist and his partners looked into my mouth, took a sudden sharp breath, and shook their collective heads. In the six weeks since my last cleaning, my mouth had become a disaster zone, the oral equivalentt of New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. An emergency session of Congress would need to be called to deal with the catastrophe--or--I could have some really expensive work done.

Needless to say, I had dropped my dental insurance, due to the previously wonderful condition of my mouth, plus the fact that he had fixed every tooth I possessed two or three times. I figured, what else could happen? As it turned out, plenty. Now my gums and even my bones were involved. For all I know, the rot could have spread to my feet.

Mr Charm, by contrast, never went to the dentist, because his teeth didn't bother him. After ten dentist-free years, I forced him to get his teeth cleaned and evaluated. The verdict: his teeth were in splendid condition.

So now I know the secret of oral health: skip the dentist entirely. Buy your dental floss at the drugstore.

Also, keep your dental insurance.