Somehow, I still have most of my original teeth. There is no reasonable explanation for this. You’ve heard of the kid in the candy store? That was me. I grew up in one. It wasn’t exactly a candy store, but my family’s general store had a huge candy counter.
As soon as I was tall enough to reach the cash register, I went to work. Sure, I could have been doing regular kid stuff, but I learned quickly that when my parents were busy, it was easy to grab a Tootsie Roll or some bubble gum. Too easy.
Throughout my childhood, my mom took me to Trenton, Georgia for annual dental check-ups from Dr. Ray Ridge. He was a kind fellow, and I actually looked forward to those visits. Twice each year Dr. Ridge would scrape away the effects of my daily sugar intake.
When I became old enough to drive, I switched to a dentist in Scottsboro, Alabama, named Dr. Ralph Sheppard. My visits to his office concealed an ulterior motive. I had become obsessed with becoming a radio announcer, and he owned the local FM radio station. In my dreams, I imagined him looking deep into my mouth proclaiming, “This is the throat of a disc jockey! Put him on the radio, now!” Despite my dental chair auditions, he only seemed interested in cleaning, filling, and flossing.
Then came the dark years. As I hit my twenties, and was out from under my parents’ watchful eyes, I avoided the dentist. For about ten years, I made excuses and told outright lies when my mother questioned me about dental care. After all, I figured my teeth would last forever, and I found more enjoyable ways to spend money.
Around the time I hit thirty, it became evident that my lazy approach to dental hygiene was not getting the job done.
My mother had gotten to the point in her life where she was totally honest. Up until then, she was totally positive about me. “You look so handsome today!” “Look at that wavy hair!” And then one day, the truth came out. “Why aren’t your teeth straight anymore?” I looked in the mirror that night. She was right.
So I shopped around. “Know any painless dentists?” I asked a few co-workers. One dentist came highly recommended, and he even had the sign “Painless Dentist” on his door. He soon began salvaging the wreckage inside my mouth. Mom was on target about those crooked teeth. At the age of 35, I had to wear braces. My new dentist was laying down the law. “You’re on TV, right?” “Yes sir, I am.” “Then, take better care of your teeth!” It made sense. As for the painless dentist part, after I shrieked in pain, I said, “I thought you were a painless dentist!” He paused and said, “I didn’t feel a thing.”
I later switched to an older dentist. Miraculously, it seemed for many years, my check-ups were joyous occasions. An assistant would clean my teeth, and the elderly doc would come in, take a quick look inside, and mumble, “Everything looks good.” I was free to go.
Unfortunately, things weren’t really so good. I detected some issues, so I switched dentists again. It turned out the old fellow had neglected some serious problems. It was back to the grind.
To this day, it’s a thrice-yearly round of poking and prodding. Occasionally, my dentist will lean in to his assistant, whispering something about a maxillary axial occlusion on the first cousin molar, twice removed, and say, “I’ve never seen anything like it, have you?” I feel certain those x-rays will soon be published in the The Journal of the American Dental Association.
As for the pain, when it comes time to crown a tooth, they don’t even ask anymore. “Give him the gas,” the dentist says. For the next hour, I’m in toe-tingling heaven, grinning under the influence of nitrous oxide. Just recently, they started charging for it. I was too giddy to complain.
Someone asked me, “Have you ever had TMJ?” Nope, but I have definitely helped several dentists buy a new BMW.
