D e s e r t E x p o s u r e
December 2009
Dentured Servant
One man's tale of gums gone wrong. It's not like pulling teeth. It is pulling teeth.
By Jeff Berg
Okay, okay, so I finally went to the dentist.
It had been a while, way too long a while, and I was tired of being harangued by my spouse and of not being able to smile, even when there was something to smile about.
Yes, I have a dental phobia, which goes back mostly to sound rather than pain and such. The high-pitched sounds of the dental tools made me cringe and want to head for the nearest exit, even when I was a kid. I couldn't stand it.
I had a good dentist when I was still youthful; Dr. Earl Nordstrom was his name, and he practiced in Barrington, Ill.
I remember two things about the good doctor, other than those whirring drills and the antiseptic smell of his office: little rubber animals that he would give with each visit, and that I had a lot of them because I was there often. I never quite caught the connection between sugar and dental health, so Dr. Nordstrom may have retired early because of me.
Things got a bit better when I was older, as I cut back somewhat on sugar activity and gained a sense of maturity that allowed me to brush and such much more often. Attraction to the fairer sex certainly figured into that equation.
My first wife, who certainly wasn't attracted to me by my sparkling smile and quiet romantic demeanor, was still in high school when we met. Tall, brunette, freckled, pretty, smart and nice to me, she also sported what her father called a "million-dollar smile." She had braces, which in those days was about as much fun I suspect as one could have. It did allow for her to have a nice smile when they were finally off, and it was an eyebrow-raising experience to finally have my first real kiss, one not involving her metallic burden.
In the late 1970s, I read a book called Sugar Blues, which to this day has had a lasting effect on my life. Within its pages, I found the evils of sugar and, later, that of other sweeteners, and the way your body processes them. I also learned of high fructose corn syrup, which is present in almost everything from soft drinks to ketchup. Even Morton Salt has dextrose in it — honest, read the label!
I immediately began to scale back my sugar consumption. Gone were candy bars, soft drinks that didn't call themselves diet, ketchup, donuts (oohhhh!), most other pastries, and countless other things that I could ferret out that had evil (and I do mean evil) sugar. Since sugar goes by a number of different monikers, it was sometimes difficult to figure out just what I was eating.
It didn't take long for my energy level to increase, my lard belly to decrease, and my marriage to cease. My dietary changes, combined with other things in my life that I wanted to change, proved a bit too much for that lovely million-dollar-smile brunette whom I shared my home with. I also complicated things even more by increasing the amount of alcohol that flowed past my teeth.
But over the years, I tried to work hard to evolve to be a better and less bitter person. I quit drinking many years ago, have made amends with her, stopped eating meat, and still avoid all forms of sugar and its derivatives whenever possible, along with bee poop, better known as honey.
I fooled myself into thinking that I was also doing okay with my dental health for many years, until about a year ago, when I was driving home from Tucson after a pleasant getaway. One of the pleasures of going to such places is the occasional stop at grocery stores that offer abundant choices of produce, among them apples.
Freshly provisioned, I reached into the back seat to recover one of those red beauties. It never occurred to me that that first bite would change my life forever.
As my fangs sank into the ultra-crisp fruit, I felt a stabbing pain wind its way into my lower jaw. At first, I thought that it was just a fluke or a bad angle, but when I tried to bite again, I might as well have tried to bite a lump of coal.
Flinging the beautiful but now offensive piece of fruit away, as my wife du jour ducked just in time so she wouldn't end up with a Honey Crisp stuck in her ear, I unleashed a series of oaths that did not include "apple core, who's your friend."
I poked around my gaping maw and found that I now had a loose tooth in my bottom jaw. But oddly, there was no more pain, and it wasn't really that loose, which was true until it fell out, pain free, a couple of weeks later.
A second tooth decided to part ways with me on its own terms, but this one revealed a gap that was much more obvious. No million-dollar smile for me; instead, I would soon be ready to audition for a part in any possible remake of the movie Deliverance.
Smiling even less, which was okay by me, I resisted going to the dentist for a short time longer, until threatened by my wife and noticing that everyone would back up a pace or two when talking to me. I guess I must have looked far more loathsome than I thought.
I made an appointment with Dr. Marianne Day, who is noted on KRWG-FM several times a day as a sponsor of that grand public radio station, which helps me keep what little is left of my sanity. The best thing about her sponsorship messages is that she offers sedation dentistry, and billy-be-jiggered, if I had to go and have work done, then give me some good drugs!
My appointment day arrived far too soon, and it didn't take long for Day's competent, caring and strong staff to pry my fingers from the waiting-room chair and drag me to what I thought would be her den of evil.
Imagine my surprise when they spoke to me in cooing terms (certainly they knew my childlike behavior was only a ruse) and handed me a soft rubber ball to squeeze (pummel) as I waited for Day to sharpen her drill bits.
Day knows her stuff, and I didn't even get a chance to beg for mercy, before her honest and caring voice indicated that what I thought I had come to see her for would not be the reason that I would need to come back.
Apologizing profusely, since I was mortified at my dental condition, I let Day and her staff go right to work taking X-rays of my mouth. An older woman yelped in pain in the next exam room, each time I heard that whirring sound. They only had to tighten my restraints three times.
The X-rays were done by computer, and it was all over in a matter of minutes. Greatly relieved, but only momentarily, I waited as Day examined the X-rays and proceeded to explain my options, none of which were good.
"Your teeth are actually okay," she said, kindly neglecting to add that they needed to be sandblasted. "You only have one cavity."
I proudly proceeded to tell about my lack of sugar use, for which I was complimented, before the good doctor could inform me in these exact words: "It's your gums that have betrayed you."
Ah, who needs 'em? I thought for a moment. My teeth are okay.
But, as it turns out, I had periodontal disease, and it wasn't going to get any better no matter what condition my teeth were in. Day patiently explained my options as she reached for her hammer and chisel, an idea I decided to pass on, but did take her suggestion and referral to Dr. Nathan Dickerson, an oral surgeon also based in Las Cruces.
Gleefully, I left the dentist's office, knowing I had a full month in which to try to fix my gums myself before I had to see Dickerson.