Me and Maggie: Or Drugs, Drills and Drama at a New York City Dentist
IT WAS ALWAYS, of course, on my to do list, but never a real priority, notwithstanding the fact that one of my back teeth frequently gave a sharp twinge when I chewed on, for example, a salted almond or sipped a glass of, lets say, lightly chilled pinot grigio. So while I knew it was a ticking time bomb, that pesky little molar, I had also heard one too many detailed discussions about the horrors of root canals (and the enthusiasm with which New York dentists tended to inflict them). Not to mention the renowned masochism of ‘hygienists,’ a profession I’d never even heard of in Belfast. With visions of a 400 lb mustachioed Bulgarian called Helga coming at me with a hammer and chisel, I took the supremely adult, Scarlett O’Hara approach of putting it all off to worry about tomorrow.
The tooth, needless to say, did not take very kindly to being ignored. A few Fridays ago, as I was on my way into the glamorous Irish Arts Center Annual Gala at the New York Athletic Club (struggling not to fall off my high heel sandals or out of my uncharacteristically low cut evening dress), I noticed that one of my teeth had suddenly and quite dramatically, changed shape. A panicked trip to the ladies’ room mirror, mouth agape, revealed a very mangled looking broken molar and brought with it the stark realization that a date with the dentist was now unavoidable.
October 10, 2007, 1.20 pm
Based in Maspeth, Dr. Margaret Fitzsimons seems to treat every single Irish man, woman and child that lives in the borough of Queens. “She’s very good and it didn’t hurt one bit when she did my root canal” one of my long suffering friends advised in a vain attempt to instill calm as she passed on the phone number. Vaguely reassured, I made an appointment.
Three days later, prostrate in The Chair, having twisted and turned my way through the 18 introductory X-rays (I am ashamed to admit that at one point, the nurses had to use a local analygesic on my tongue to get past that allegedly simple procedure), the good dentist came in and sat down beside me, eyebrows raised.
“You seem a little anxious” she said, noting the fact that I was bug-eyed, hands clamped to The Chair and unable to speak. “Did you have a bad experience with a dentist in the past?” she wondered, bemused. “Because looking at these pictures, it doesn’t appear that you’ve had any major work done to you at all. When was the last time you were actually at a dentist?”
It felt like I was in confession. “Um, not really sure, perhaps four years ago?” I ventured, a response received with an element of polite skepticism on her part. Prior to that, I quickly assured her, had been the regular ether-infused visits as a child, dragged periodically by vigilant parents. This, I stated proudly, was the first time I had made an appointment voluntarily. At the very least, I deserved a lollipop, or a sugar cube, surely.
Not quite. She pointed to one of the X-ray pictures, singling out the broken culprit at the back. “It’s decayed. And you, I'm afraid, are going to need a root canal.” Should have seen that coming. I nodded helplessly. Next, she focused on a series of photographs taken with an innocuous looking pen like device while I wasn't looking. Had I done a Google on the search term “dental disasters” I doubt it would have been possible to find anything more disturbing. “That’s a lot of tartar built up there,” she observed, enlarging the horrific images to the point where I started to feel faint. “So, in addition to the root canal and eight fillings, I suggest at least two industrial strength cleanings. It’ll probably take nine or ten visits altogether, but don't worry, I think we can sort you out.”
Check up over, I left in a moderate state of euphoria. Granted, my teeth were falling apart but apparently fixable and my fears of waking up to a set of dentures in a glass beside my bed were unfounded. And although I didn’t get a lollipop or a sugar cube, I did leave clutching a prescription for valium. In fact, the exasperated nurses told me not to come back for my next appointment unless I had taken at least one of them.
October 17, 2007, 1pm
Root Canal Day. The euphoria had vanished, replaced by a headache so intense that I nearly didn’t get out of bed to make the appointment at all. Nonetheless, with a sense of resigned gloom, I rang for a taxi, took the prescribed valium and waited to start tripping. Nothing happened.
Taxi arrived and spirited me merrily towards Maspeth. Far too quickly. Still nothing happened. I signed in with the dental nurse, who congratulated me for turning up - they were convinced, after the last visit, that I'd be a no show. "How are you feeling?" she asked sympathetically. "Pretty disappointed." I admitted. "The valium is not working." She sighed and directed me into the surgery.
Ipod was produced from handbag, head phones plugged into ears and Pink Floyd selected for maximum ambient effect. Still nothing happened. The good Dr. Maggie came in armed with a pair of latex gloves. Instruments of torture were laid on tables. "So you made it! Well done!" she said brightly. "I don't think much of that valium," I retorted, head lolling, eyes rolling, with a slight chuckle. "Do you mind if I listen to some songs on my iPod?" "We'd prefer it" she answered, matter of factly before bearing downwards in a chinward direction. Granted, the initial approach of the novocaine injection was met with few eye-popping whimpers and involuntary foot-kicks on my part. And I deeply regret the nailmarks embedded on the side of The Chair and, I believe, on one of the nurse's arms. Eventually, though, I wisely closed my eyes and noticed, after a short, quick pinch on the gum, a rather pleasant numbness ensuing. And the sun was shining in my head and life, all of a sudden, was very very good.
Next came the drilling, the smell of enamel burning, the pleasant swish of water combined with the distant worry that a wayward tongue would slip in the way of danger never to be heard from again. But then again, who cares about that, they could probably fix it pretty quickly, these fabulously talented New York dentists. The awareness of deconstruction being focused on the back tooth area rather paled in comparison to the beautiful patterns dancing back and forth on my eyelids. And the powerful musical nuances involved in the Rolling Stones song "Paint it Black" were suddenly striking me as being quite profound. Who cared about the driving pressure of the drill. Such talented, wonderful musicians, the Rolling Stones. What a wonderfully professional and lovely dentist, this Dr. Fitzsimons. They have such a bad reputation, dentists, so underappreciated and vilified by the world when they are actually quite agreeable, helpful people.
Some twenty minutes later, I was told that the job, thus far, was complete. Instruments were extracted and I sat up slowly, tentatively fingertipping around my still senseless jaw. "Why, who needs valium, that wasn't nearly as bad as I expected!" I exclaimed in surprise. Dr. Maggie peeled off the latex gloves and shook her head. "Speak for yourself," she responded wryly, before quickly departing the room.
Dr. Margaret Fitzsimons, D.D.S. General & Cosmetic Dentistry 56-30 Hamilton Place 65th Place, off Grand Avenue Maspeth, NY 11378
