Last year at this time, I was mid way into a long and somewhat painful root canal and crown process. First one tooth, then it's neighboring molar. It was like a small coup on the right side of my face. I've never been a big fan of dental procedures anyway, so three rounds of antibiotics (and their accompanying complications), many, many trips to the office, and that messy incident with the Percocet (I literally may never eat my favorite chicken and pasta dish again. Ever.), I was spent emotionally and physically.
None of this was cheap, either. In fact, I had maxed out my entire benefit for the year in just 4 months. Frankly, I knew I didn't have the best dental insurance, so all of this was partly my own darn fault. I had waited and tried to put off having work done because I thought at the time that I simply could't afford it. (Don't do that! Trust me, if your teeth hurt, for pity sake go see the dentist. Ignoring them sure won't make it go away!) Then I got the last of my bills. There was a little asterisk at the bottom that read: "Your group participates in *insert dental insurance company name here* preferred dentist program. Your dentist does not participate in the program. You may reduce your out-of-pocket cost by having services rendered by a PDP network dentist." All the work I'd just had done had been a pretty big financial hit for me. Let's be honest, I just don't make that much so the $2000ish I had spent over the course of four months was much-missed. I did a little sleuthing and to my dismay, by choosing an in-network, preferred provider I could have saved 30-50%. In my world, that's not chump change!
Armed with this new knowledge and a titch of indignation about the money I might have saved, I set out to find a new dentist. I asked around and settled on the one recommended to me by a trusted friend. He was a preferred provider, geographically compatible, and my friend and his family all raved about how great he was. I set a cleaning appointment, explaining that my dental benefits were gone already and asking what they might charge for a basic cleaning and other usual care. (After all, I did totally learn my lesson about neglecting my teeth.) They were warm, accommodating, and easy to work with. I felt like I'd hit the jackpot. I felt horribly guilty about leaving the Matthews group, but, I reasoned, this was a close second. I felt smugly proud of myself. Regardless of the I-really-can't-believe-you're-
At my first cleaning, new dentist told me one of my fillings wasn't looking good. It didn't come as a great surprise. It tasted sort of odd and I hadn't really chewed anything on that side for a while. Let it be known, I have crazy, lumpy, crack-prone teeth. I admit it. They sure do look pretty, but looks can be deceiving. So I set myself a follow-up appointment for the minute after my new year's worth of dental benefits kicked in. It was obvious there was no saving it, so it was another crown for me. Neat. I wasn't looking forward to it, but I did some math and comforted myself in the $200 I was saving. That's a lot of shoes, in case you're wondering.
Now, not everything was exactly rosy. I'm single and work full-time, so I'm not always at liberty to take the 10:15 AM appointment on a Tuesday morning--especially not for major work. New dentist's staff didn't seem to understand that. Literally. When I set a dental appointment, I generally do it based on my workload and deadlines for the week. If I ask for 4:30 PM on a Thursday, that's what I mean. So, by the sixth phone call asking for me to come in at a different time, I was getting frustrated. I'm sure the sweet, pesky (formerly charming) woman who kept apologizing for calling *again* meant well, but when she got a little pushy about why I couldn't come in at whatever arbitrary time they wanted to foist on me today, I got irritated. When I told her for the millionth time that I was so sorry, but I really couldn't change my appointment time, she said, (and I quote!) "Oh, are you waiting for your husband to come home and take care of the kids?" Really? Now I get that I'm technically a nearly middle aged woman with a few gray hairs, but dear, silly receptionist, you've only met me three times EVER and, frankly, my marital/lack of kid status is a little sensitive. "No," I said firmly. "I'm not married. I don't have any children. I work and I have deadlines to meet. I cannot move my appointment again. I'm sorry." I hung up, wishing that I was talking to nice, normal Mary at Dr Matthews' office. Mary who doesn't ask impertinent questions about my non-family.
On the day of my appointment, I was feeling rather anxious. After all, a virtual stranger was about to handle my teeth in kind of a big way. And new dentist, I had noted, also had a funny habit of asking a question and then rolling away behind my head and talking to the hygienist while I stared at the ceiling and tried to answer. I hadn't thought too much of it during my check ups. Not everyone can be as socially engaged as Dr. Matthews. Some people are just kind of awkward. New dentist struck me as such, and I had mentally forgiven him because he was cheaper. Small sacrifices have to be made, right? I didn't realize how much that whole not-paying-attention-to what-the-patient-is-saying-
I joked with the billing person about going to get my nitrous on as I was led back to my room. Her confused look should have been a my first clue that this wasn't going to go well. As the 8 ft tall, male hygienist bibbed me up, I mentioned the nitrous again (nitrous oxide is also called laughing gas and as someone with a mild anxiety disorder, it's my best friend once I'm in the chair). I mentioned it was pretty important but was told that someone else was using it at the moment so they'd bring it in later. I was a little surprised. Every room in Dr Matthews' office has its own nitrous oxide set up. Did these guys have to wheel theirs around from room to room like a dessert cart? Was it only reserved for special occasions? I wasn't thrilled. I waited eagerly (anxiously) for my sweet relief to come as new dentist and giant-basketball-player-could-
Once they determined I was numb enough (...including a second round of shots and new dentist telling to open and close my mouth about 600 times while he has his hands and a needle in there...what the heck that was all about I'll never know, but he's lucky I didn't bite him because, trust me, I was tempted) they commenced working. There was still no nitrous, but I reassured myself that hygienist guy knew I was waiting for it and kept hoping it would come soon. About 40 minutes in, I was losing hope of ever getting my laughing gas. This did not bode well for me or them as I started into a full-blown panic attack. New dentist had this completely bizarre water/suction/cold air method of drilling away my tooth. Mostly it consisted of giant hygienist spraying water all over the side of my face, letting it run down my neck and into my hair while simultaneously forcing me to suck out my own spit even after I had swallowed, and blowing ice cold air on my exposed tooth and nerve. New dentist kept telling me to turn left, then right, then left, then right... so often that I was certain he'd been in the army. At one point I was apparently not cooperating adequately, so he grabbed my face with both hands and turned my head for me with a considerable amount of force. I'm 34. I'm pretty sure I've got the head turning thing down, thanks.
Needless to say, I was completely losing my mind. I really can't be held down for that long and at one point, my head was actually hanging sideways off the chair while new dentist performed his Chinese water torture act. I didn't know what to do. I knew I couldn't just make them stop despite my urge to leap out of the chair and run out of the office. We had to finish what we'd started. But my headphones had long since fallen out, I was soaking wet, cold, panicking (literally shaking uncontrollably from a full-blown panic attack), and furious with myself and the whole situation. To add insult to injury, the sides of my mouth were cut from the violent use of dental floss and my jaw ached from the lack of a bite block. I'd spent most of 4 months in and out of the dentist's chair, endured two root canals, and still had never experienced anything like this. Ever.
A full 2 and 1/2 hours of drilling later, shaken, wet, and more than a little distressed, I wobbled out of the office. On my way out, I stopped to talk to the receptionist. As calmly as I could, I asked if in the future, I needed to schedule the use of nitrous for my appointments. (I didn't actually want to run screaming from the office. It's not very lady like.) "You see, I have a panic disorder and it's kind of necessary for me," I explained. "Oh," she said cheerily, "he doesn't like to use nitrous. The apparatus gets in his way." In HIS way? I wondered if he knew how dangerously close he'd come to losing a finger that day. I didn't have appropriate words to express my disgust, so I thanked her for letting me know, paid my slightly cheaper bill, and left. I cried the whole drive home, knowing that I'd have to come back in a few weeks for the gluing (another entire hour and half ordeal of drilling, Novocaine, and ridiculous waterworks).
When Dr Matthews' office called the next week to schedule my annual cleaning, I sheepishly confessed that I had already had one this year, but that I had a suspiciously painful tooth that I knew needed to be attended to (I'm telling you, I've got crazy teeth). Within the week, I went in for my next crown. Dr Matthews and I had a laugh about the prodigal returning, vanilla scented nitrous was administered, and 45 painless minutes later I was done. I took my chocolate covered strawberry, set my 30 minute appointment for my permanent gluing, and with Dr Matthews' personal cell phone number in hand (in case anything went wrong over the weekend), I paid my completely-worth-every-penny bill.
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