The Tooth Fairy
YOU’LL NEED MORE FREEZING.
Did you ever get money from the tooth fairy for leaving your baby teeth under the pillow? How about losing adult teeth in your twenties? Doesn’t work — you have to pay the tooth fairy. Maybe that’s why I avoided dentists until a cavity was so bad, the pesky molar had to be yanked right out. The wisdom teeth were next, but this time my dentist was the father of the girl I was living in sin with. (We subsequently married).
Dr. Scott, it turned out, was a dentist with a wonderful chairside manner, who finally dispersed all my fears. “I’ll just flick these out,” Philip announced, all the while distracting me with one of his endless, trapped-audience stories. After Dr. Phil helped with my phobia, dental experiences were a breeze. I enjoyed lying half-asleep in those plushy chairs, getting all the attention. The secret I discovered was not to think about the dentist until you absolutely had to. When I was younger it was the anticipation that made it such an abomination. On the other hand, I should have thought about going to the dentist before developing a toothache that wouldn’t go away. I thought I could treat this one just with Tylenol.
It was now the dead of winter and I had to get away from all this stuff. We had already booked a two-week vacation in Grenada, West Indies, where we’d spend two days in the capital of St. Georges, and the rest of the time on Grenada’s small island of Carriacou, a welcome respite from modern civilization. My tooth ached. With less than a week before the trip, I got an appointment with a dental surgeon who had a cancellation. As I lay back in his luxury dental recliner, he reported the results of his close examination. “Good news: you won’t need a root canal.” Great, on with the vacation. “Actually,” he continued, “nothing can be done — that tooth will have to come out.” My second upper molar had a crack somewhere in the root, and I’d have to book an extraction. With just days before the flight, that wasn’t going to happen. I was prescribed a strong antibiotic to control the inflammation till we got back.
Within hours after landing in Grenada the toothache went into overdrive. The antibiotics were having no effect, and by morning my irksome molar was worse. A dentist had to be found quickly before venturing the next day to Carriacou, where the alternative would be a garage mechanic with pliers — after plying him, and myself, with enough rum. Hasty phone calls led to a local clinic, where I was able to wait in line for the itinerant tooth-puller.
In the dim reception area, lime green paint peeled from old stucco walls, while a picture of Grenada’s Prime Minister grinned down in reassurance. I was finally ushered into a room with an ancient dental chair that seemed to be listing to starboard, while a small lizard scampered under it. In came a muscular, crisply uniformed, Grenadian woman who towered several inches above me. I asked about the dentist’s whereabouts. “I am the dentist,” she declared. “Sit down.” She pulled over a rickety tray, and before I knew it needles were jabbing up through the bony roof of my mouth. My head arched backwards as I instinctively tried saving my brain from the onslaught. Soon I couldn’t feel a thing.
The iron lady clamped on something that belonged in a blacksmith’s shop, then started pulling one way, then the other, with all her strength. “Man!” she declared. “This is a tough one!” My chair squeaked as the wrestling match continued. At last I felt — or rather, heard — something slowly being sucked out of my skull. “I GOT it!” the dentist exclaimed, holding up her bloody trophy. Her jubilation soon turned to disappointment though. “Damn! It broke — part of the root’s still in there. You’ll need more freezing.” This time instead of yanking back and forth, the Herculean tooth fairy was cutting or sawing deep into the socket, searching for broken bits. I was too deliriously frozen to care.
Never was I so grateful something was over. Impressed with the dentist’s strength and persistence, I thanked her sincerely. “Extractions are all I do,” my tooth fairy responded. I asked how many she did. “Probably seventeen.” That’s a lot in a week. “You’re the seventeenth today.” It was just 2:00 PM. I emerged into the the tropical heat, feelin’ no pain.
© September 2021 by Richard Hancox
