As I sat in the chair yesterday having my teeth cleaned, I remembered I intended to write a sequel to this post.
Later, in my first appointment with my new dentist.
Dentist: I noticed a bit of wear on your teeth.
Me: What would that be from?
Dentist: Well, most often stress.
I nod.
Dentist: It doesn't appear to be old damage. I don't mean to pry, but would you have gone through a stressful period in the past two years?
Me: Oh, yes. I would say so.
Dentist: Have you had headaches?
Me: Yeah. And I never had them before.
Dentist: Most often in the morning, I bet. After a night with clenched, grinding teeth.
Me: Wow. You're totally right.
Dentist: I wouldn't even mention any of this if I didn't see evidence of improvement.
Me: You can see that?
Dentist: Looks to me like you haven't been grinding in the past several months, maybe half a year. Which tells me things are maybe better than they were?
I stare at him a moment.
Me: Can we set up a counseling schedule?
5 comments:
I love my dentist too.
ha ha ha! I bet you do.
When I was a kid, I was for a time the victim of the nefarious Doctor Proctor (seriously...). Evidently, DrP's specialty was the traumatizing of short people. So I was justified in biting the SOB's right index finger efficiently enough (copious cavities notwithstanding) to enable me to revel over that scarred knuckle in my peripheral vision in subsequent visits. My current dentist, by contrast, is a wizard whose waiting room is typically crammed to the gunnels with short people who couldn't be more relaxed if they were awaiting entry to a video arcade. A better world.
In yesterday's appointment, I cringed as she reached for the polish. I always remember the horrible gritty suff they used in the 80s when I was a short person. Luckily, they've improved in that area, too.
Just perfect.
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