The Tooth Fairy is Bankrupt -

I was eight years old when I had a serious gum issue. My father took me to our dentist, Dr. Zulueta, who prepared the shot of anesthesia and asked me to open my mouth. My recollection is that the syringe and needle looked like an antique hammered metal screwdriver. When my dad saw what was about to happen, he appropriately fainted.

My wisdom teeth were pulled out when I was 22 years old. Twenty years later, I started an odyssey to the slippery slope of pursuing a pretty smile. My husband (HB) told me of a conversation he had with some of his colleagues. They were discussing about the pretty mail order brides from Russia. One of them said, “They are pretty but they have bad teeth.” Apparently, HB said, “You make enough money to fix her teeth.” Unbeknownst to him, he would be my partner in the odyssey that has now become one of our major ongoing never-ending family projects.

In 2001, we made a decision to fix my smile. My dentist apparently was responsible for the smiles flashed around the world by Liz Taylor, a former U.S. Secretary of State, and various politicos and news personalities. Dr. R. was my hero. He is grandfatherly, of Japanese descent and the only dentist I saw who would kiss me on the forehead after the pain he thought he inflicted. He was like my surrogate Dad; a very kind man who did a wonderful job. He has a fine sense of aesthetics combined with his knowledge of dentistry. Whenever I would mention his name to other dentists in the area, they would always say, “Dr. R is the best. You are used to the best.” Dr. R retired leaving me a beautiful smile. I told HB that they were supposed to last for 15 years. He said, “Oh no, Honey. You are going to die with those fucking teeth. If you divorce me, I take custody of your teeth.”

In 2008, those pretty crowns failed and were replaced by another set. I had my dentist clean them. I put them in a jewelry box and presented them to HB. “Here are the teeth. I give you full custody. Now we are even.”

Since Dr. R. retired, my teeth have taken a turn for the worst. I have implants, root canals, and crowns. During one of these implant procedures, I had to wait for 18 months to get permanently “crowned.” My newest dentist came highly recommended by The Washingtonian magazine. I took a list of Washington's Best to my orthodontist and asked which one should I go to. He asked me why I was leaving my current dentist. “Well, he is too busy saying he is the best. He has no time to listen to me.” All conversations start and end in what he did, how he has the best products in his practice, how he made it to the A-List and would I visit the website so I can also say something positive about him. No, and as a matter of fact, hell no, I jumped ship the moment my crowns were in place.

My orthodontist would not speak the name of my current dentist. He said he would not feel right about recommending Dr. C over the one I am now a patient of. So I asked, “Can you at least point to a name?” He looked at me, and said, “Okay, that feels better. I will not say the name but I will point.” He pointed to the name of my present dentist.

Dr.C is a no nonsense guy but he has a sense of humor that I feel comfortable with. He made me a “flipper” to fill the gap while I waited for my implants to be crowned. They look like removable dentures with more “gums” than teeth. He warned me that pets love them. He was not kidding, my cats played with it and I have not seen it since the day they disappeared. I want to believe it is the cats. I say this because I also believe in a parallel universe and those who live in this universe have taken my reading glasses, driving glasses, my watch, and now my flipper. If I were a toothless soul without dental insurance, I may seriously consider lifting someone’s flipper too.

Someone told me about an “underground” Filipino dentist who can make a flipper for a discounted price. I went to his home and he was very kind. When I asked if he had a clinic downstairs in his basement he said, “Oh no, we do everything here in the living room.” He came out with a tray laden with alcohol, Bounty towels, impression “clay” and without further ado, inserted it in my mouth. After a few minutes, he turned the dimmer up and he handed me a color sample. I used the huge mirror in their living room to decide the color of my new flipper. Then I started asking him where he went to dental school. He started laughing and said, “You really want to know?” He named something like Juan de Campos Dentistry School. I said, “Really? THAT is a dental school?” We both laughed. He said, “Yes, actually. Don’t you feel like you are at a dental clinic in Raon?” Raon is a strip of music shops and book stores in Manila.

Two weeks later, I picked up a flipper that trumped the one I paid $700 for. If I had to live the rest of my life poor and unable to pay for dentures or implants, I would have died and been buried with that awesome thing. A mutual friend named Barbara ours apparently called Dr. Underground’s home while I was there. His wife told our friend that a lady named ME was there. Barbara said, “Are you serious? Are you sure?” When Dr. U’s wife said, “That is her name.” She described me. Barbara thought “Oh my God, her husband must have lost his job and they bankrupt! Why else would she see Dr. U?”

While on vacation in the Philippines in 2008, I started having a toothache. I went to a very upscale dental clinic. I told them to pull out the hurting tooth as I know it would be implanted in the States. They wanted to speak with my stateside dentist and I said, “Look it is night time in the States. He will not speak with you. I want you to take it out. It is meant to be taken out eventually.” They cleaned my teeth, consulted with their top dentist in their practice and told me my blood pressure is up and need to have it restored to normal. “Is there something that’s causing this?” Duh, I was in pain! The next day, I went back and I said, “I do not care if my blood pressure is up or down. The pain is dumb. Take it out. I mean it.”

They had me sit and she said “Let me see.” Before she could finish the sentence she had the tooth out. All that consultation and commotion for one piece of crappy tooth. When I went back to the States, I found out that it was not the tooth that was scheduled to be taken out but it did not matter, it had to be taken out as well. They have been replaced by implants since then.

I am now in the process of three additional implants and two of them happen to be my front teeth. The surgery happened only a week ago. As my oral surgeon pulled each front tooth, I can only describe the sensation that it felt like he was pulling it from the center of my being. He then grafted bone in it and installed the implants during the same time. He is reputed to have the special skill set to do what I can only call the “trinity” procedure. Usually, every procedure takes to set for six months before the next one is done. The process for implants takes a total of 18 months. This time, the wait is only 6 months.

I was wide awake for the procedure. Although I felt no pain, he tells me what he was about to do, how that would feel, etc. I was so tensed. I am so used to my former surgeon that I call my Dr. 90210 because he reminds me of Dr. Ray in Beverly Hills that glamorizes implanting women’s chests and tucking extra belly skin, etc. Dr. 90210 comes in the operating room, talking about his trip, his awesome vacation. He asks me where I would go for my “dream vacation” and before I could answer, I would be asleep in a dreamless state. Dr. 90210 is in his early forties, does not have time to know you or any of his patients. You come in on the day of the procedure; he comes in the room when his God-given hands are ready to rock and roll; he asks you for your dream vacation, you cannot answer because his assistants have already put anesthesia into your veins. I would wake up being stitched up with either cadaver’s bone or titanium posts in my mouth. His office sends you the bill, which would have paid for a business class plane ticket and a week’s stay at a five -star hotel in Fiji including a personal butler, masseuse, and a chef.

In the meantime, I now wear another flipper that looks like two discolored Chiclets glued in my mouth. At night, I take them out and wear my night guard to prevent me from biting the implants. The first time I smiled at my husband without my front teeth, he leapt off the couch in laughter and proclaimed, “Honey, you look like trailer trash!” I so agreed. My son reacted differently; he looked at me and said, “Mom, please.” I find humor in my reality at the moment and I know this is just a means to an end. In the summer of 2011, preferably on my birthday, I will, for the first time since 1998, be able to bite into an apple!