Me and Maggie – Part II: I’ll take another root canal instead of the cleaning, thanks.
November 28, 2007, 11 am
I am now about half way through my reluctant oralathon of long overdue dental treatment. Happily, I can report that the two-day tension headaches and heart palpitations have diminished slightly prior to each appointment.
Today, I’m due a cleaning. This, I’ve been assured by the dentist, the nurses and the cabdriver, is easy, absolutely nothing to worry about. And as the taxi bounced into every single pothole that exists on the congested expressway between Manhattan and Maspeth, I almost forgot to send the usual pre-visit text messages demanding comfort and reassurance from friends and family in New York, San Francisco, Melbourne, Dublin, London, Limerick and Belfast. (Most of them now know to switch cell-phones off when not in use). The Valium, of course, continues to be a necessary anxiety-relieving treat although for all the effect it has, I’m convinced the pharmacist gave me a bottle of placebos and is selling my valuable little pills to troubled celebrities on e-bay for a tidy profit.
I arrive at the surgery, and settle, blissfully ignorant, into the chair. While I’m not quite her favorite patient yet, I think it’s only a matter of time before Dr. Fitzsimons and I become the best of friends, in manner of Katie Holmes and Posh Spice. Professional, philanthropic socialites that we are, appearances would be made at fundraisers and galas, shopping trips, dental spas and charitable museum parties at the Met. She might even invite me to appear as a specimen at prestigious scientific conferences, perhaps to illustrate controversial panel discussions about the benefits of knocking certain patients unconscious prior to all and any treatments.
Obviously, these glamorous outings with my new BFF will no longer include pit stops for large mocha whip chocolate drizzle topped cappuccinos and brick-sized slices of sticky toffee pudding on the side, or, for that matter, my favorite fruity cosmopolitans and margaritas lined up on the bar. Instead, I realized with alarm, my wholesome life would now involve lots of apples, cheese (for the calcium) and animated discussions about the most effective flossing techniques, enjoyed over cups of (unsweetened) parsley or camomile tea.
At one of these fortuitous social events, it is hoped, my twinkling smile and freshly minted breath will eventually attract the wanton gaze of a square-jawed bachelor with a III after his name, a penthouse in the city, a weakness for Irish girls and the brightest of porcelain Kennedy style grins. And good prospects, with a liberal outlook and perhaps even lofty political aspirations. We would date for a year. He’d propose on both knees and we would throw a low-key wedding in a cosy Dingle pub followed by a delightful honeymoon touring the lakes of Central Italy, drinking champagne, eating strawberries and brushing our teeth vigorously at our villa's matching marble washbasins. Then we’d embark on an enviable, socially conscious, environmentally friendly married life together. And it would all be thanks to Dr. Fitzsimons. What a wonderfully talented, helpful and brilliant person she is.
Or so I thought. The rolling Tuscan landscape disappeared and was replaced by grim reality and the commencement of a distinctly unceremonious thirty minute cleaning session. I quickly decided I was no longer on such good terms with Dr. Fitzsimons.
It appears that the twice daily whizz around with a turbo charged electric toothbrush just isn’t enough any more. As I hadn’t been for an industrial strength professional cleaning in over four years, the ever patient dentist was now faced with the thankless task of chiseling through quite an impressive build up of tartar. Morsels of petrified burgers, pizza slices, Easter Eggs. french fries, Spanish omelets, smoked salmon wheels, bacon sandwiches, creamed spinach, parmesan crisps, garlic bread, olive oil, red wine and pistachio nuts, to name but a few of my much loved food groups, had crystallized into a resilient geologically unique ore under the gums. Fashioned into a concrete format, it could probably be used to build bomb shelters or to store nuclear waste safely for centuries to come.
Every time I opened my eyes, squinting weakly amidst the noise of that interminable electric pick-axe, all I could see was blood, guts, water and shrapnel flying skywards and splattering the ceiling, windows and walls around me. It felt like my entire mouth was being quarried for granite. This, without question, was ten times worse than the root canal.
When it was finally over, I sat up cross-eyed, all polished teeth and swollen Jagger-Jolie lips frozen into a nonfunctioning trout like pout. Shakily, I stepped over some stray pieces of rubble on the floor and staggered towards the relative tranquility of the articulated lorries speeding up and down Grand Avenue. “Well, you’ll be a good few pounds lighter after that,” Dr. Maggie remarked after me, as she dusted some unidentifiable fragments of filet mignon off her computer keyboard. “Don’t leave it so long between cleanings and the next one won’t be half as bad.” “Umpgh mn gagrpghagphic the hffeeeel kghleeeee mnalaaa.” I told her grumpily, but decisively, before exiting the building and closing the door very firmly behind me.
Dr. Margaret Fitzsimons, D.D.S. General & Cosmetic Dentistry 56-30 Hamilton Place 65th Place, off Grand Avenue Maspeth, NY 11378
