If my grandma knew it was the first trip in about two years,
she’d burst something.
Being that I think she only has one or two of her own left,
she’s constantly ranting and raving about me saving my teeth.
If my grandma knew it was the first trip in about two years, she’d burst something.
Being that I think she only has one or two of her own left, she’s constantly ranting and raving about me saving my teeth.
“Take care of your teeth, Erin. You don’t want to end up like me,” she always says, her dentures click-clacking away through Polident-encrusted lips.
I’ve naturally had pretty good teeth my whole life – thanks to braces, retainers, numerous fillings and a horrible contraption I’d rather forget called a bionator.
But a few months ago things started going south and I realized I had to bite the big one and make a trip to the dentist.
Between a dull ache in the left side of my face and a significant hole in one of my molars that I couldn’t keep my tongue out of, I was positive it was going to be a long, involved, painful visit.
As I reclined in the dreaded chair, waiting for the dentist to start his drilling and poking and prodding and all the other nasty things they do, I got to thinking about the worst dentist visit I had ever witnessed. Although it wasn’t my chompers in question, it was bad enough to scare the bejesus out of me whenever dentists are involved.
The vicious visit occurred in London, which right off the bat is bad news because the Brits aren’t really known for their stellar dental hygiene.
I was going to school abroad for a semester and I lived in an apartment with a bunch of other American students. One night in the middle of the semester, a group of us went to the local pub to partake in the establishment’s “pound shot night” (like buck night here in the States).
Most of us were only 18 or 19, and being able to party with the big girls and boys (legally) for a change was too much for some of the group to handle.
After a barrage of Kamikazes and a handful of shiny Blue Diamonds, half the crew was already three sheets to the wind but ready to hit up another pub.
There were about six of us who left together, and on the walk to the next bar my friend Rebecca decided to hitch a ride on my friend Brian’s back.
This wouldn’t be anything to write home about if Brian hadn’t been 6-foot-8 and Rebecca a midget. A drunk midget swinging from the back of a drunk giant was pretty funny at the time.
And it would have continued to be funny if Brian hadn’t tripped and broken his fall with his face. The consequences of his face colliding with the pavement were the destruction of his two front teeth.
After he picked himself up off the ground and lamely collected his teeth, which had skirted across the cement in a slick stream of blood and spit, all hell broke loose.
Between an ambulance that took a half an hour to arrive, a hospital that apparently couldn’t help because they didn’t do dental procedures, a couple of six packs and a taxi ride to some place called Shepherds Bush, ending up on the outskirts of London at an all-night dentist office didn’t seem too out of place.
By this time it was close to 2 a.m., and as we filled out the necessary forms to help poor, toothless Brian, the dentist, who looked Middle Eastern and didn’t speak very good English, informed us that we had basically just walked in to the ninth ring of dental hell.
He told us he had had a few drinks that night as well, he wasn’t actually a dentist but just filling in for the regular dentist, but that he would do his best to patch Brian back together.
Dripping sweat, one hand stuffed in his pocket and a needle the size of a small baseball bat aimed shakily at Brian’s gums, the “dentist” only missed twice before finally shooting Brian up with some numbing drugs that for the moment took the edge off.
In the end, it took Brian about three weeks and $4,000 to get his two front teeth fixed in merry old England.
After a short and only semi-painful cleaning, a fixed filling and some light chastising about my flossing practices, Brian’s long-ago dental debauchery was quickly forgotten when I heard my current dentist speak those five magic words: “No cavities, off you go.”
So for now, I can flash my pearly whites with the knowledge that for the time being, Grandma’s Fixodent, or Efferdent, or Whatever-dent are far off in my future.
And as long as I don’t get drunk and decide to give a midget a lift via piggy-back, hopefully, I can keep those products off my shelves for many years to come.
