Talking Dentists

I went to the dentist yesterday.  Like my optometrist, he’s a lovely person, but I don’t like going there.  The idea of scraping anything off of my body with a little sword bothers me, but that’s my issue.  Over the years, I’ve gotten to know my dentist and his team.  I speak to the receptionist regularly.  She’s both friendly and focused.  I know enough about her to make a connection, but she’s also not paying by the hour to talk through her Daddy issues.  We were referred in by friends and our first visit happened within hours to fix a broken tooth.  I’m grateful for this team.  

I’m also grateful for the contrast he provides against his industry.  My experience with dentists varies wildly.  One guy became a dentist so that he could work 3.5 days a week.  His personal motivation was evident in his quality of service.  Another guy created a ‘dental spa,’ painting cherubs on the ceiling and installing water-feature-sound-machines in the ceiling.  I thought it a bit much but was fine until he reschedule my appointment for an ‘unplanned conflict.’  I understood until his assistant slipped and told me he a new lunch meeting with somebody more important than me.  

The new guy is technically competent and personal, knows his place in my life and wants to take care of me and my family.  He knows the system he’s in, works with it when appropriate and works against it when he needs to.  

But there is this dance, isn’t there.  Open, close, spit, swallow, talk, stop talking.  Knowing when to open my eyes and close them is awkward.  Going to the dentist is far from a massage, yet far from therapy.  It’s awkward.  

…just don’t expect me to answer a question with your hands in my mouth.