Dentist

The last dentist I had was in Boston. I would take the T from work to Kenmore Square, where I would walk past huge bookstores and crowds of people and students, past numerous sushi spots that looks a bit too grubby, and finally make it to this office building where I had to take an elevator up five flights. Upon entering the office I would sign in with the receptionist, and sit to wait. After a while the hygenist would come around and get me. She would spend the next half an hour poking at my gums, telling me I needed to floss more, scraping my teeth with sharp intruments, and finally plug a new product - usually a tooth pick, a special toothbrush, or some sort of special floss. She would then SCHEDULE MY NEXT APPOINTMENT, with her as my personal hygenist, from a computer located right there in the exam room. When the dentis came in, he would take HIS turn poking at my gums and teeth - usually with less care than Ms. Hygenist, then he would tell me I would need gumgrafts and that my molars would fall out if I didn't learn how to floss. And I would be sent home chastised, but with a new toothbrush and sometimes a new packet of floss.

A few years ago my health plan changed, and I had to find a new dentist. I decided to forget about getting a dentist in Mass. because I wasn't going to live there forever. So I picked one out of the insurance book - the one who lived closest to me.

Driving to my dentist's office is like driving straight out of civilization. He's about 10 miles down a smallish highway, then you take a right at some point, and then go down this other long road... and there is his office. It's a big red house with a big red barn. There are wheels on his house. There is a basketball hoop in the driveway. There is a small sign that says "DENTIST" hanging from a tree. When you get to his door you see that there is a sign posting his hours. He's closed three days a week, but open Saturdays. Another sign says "Ring and Enter."

Inside is a throwback to 1970. Except for the magazines. But the furniture is grren. Shag rug. Dark wood walls. Yellow and blue country quilt hanging on the wall. There is a reception desk. No one is at it. There is no receptionist. There is also no hygenist. There is only this doctor, who is smiling and wearing slacks and a button down shirt, but the beard and the pony tail make me feel he might be growing pot in his basement. Which is fine by me, as long as he isn't smoking it before poking at my teeth with the pointy things.

I was actually really nervous the first time I went there. It was just us. He could have been a madmad. Then he found my FIRST EVER CAVITY and told me he could fix it on the spot... and I had all these visions of his hacking up my body with the 1975 drill that hung on the tool... holder... thingy. But he actually was really good about (almost) painlessly filling my tooth, and it was very, very quick.

My dentist never yells at me. He tells me not to brush too hard in one spot, but has never threatened me with extra costly and painful procedures - although I have by now seen other patients in his office, and I know he does procedures other than clean teeth. The whole appointment takes 20 minutes, from the time I walk into his office to the time I walk out, and that includes scheduling for next time.

The thing about my dentist is... he has no computer system. AT least not a good one. If I don't remember my appointment and I call up, he has to look through a book to find my name. And every single time I go he sends my insurance information to a huge list of wrong insurance companies - all who used to cover me, but no longer do. I know it's hard to keep track, but it gets really silly.

I need to pick a dentist for Nick soon. I'm looking for someone close by, and I know I'll be thrown once again into the land of receptionists and hygenists, which is fine for Nick. But I kind of like my dentist and the relaxed atmosphere. Until I have major tooth problems, and then I'll want the sterile guy with the newest equipment.