Where’s My Crown?

A few months ago, I decided to look for a new dentist.

I asked several friends for recommendations, and settled on a dentist that one particular friend raved about. We’ll call him Dr. Whiteteeth. Because I am a stalker thorough, I looked his practice up on Google- The website featured a photo of a very friendly-looking man surrounded by a team of attractive-yet-approachable hygienists, all with dazzling smiles on their faces. Eagerly, I called and made an appointment for the next week.

When I arrived, I was quickly ushered to a private room, where my teeth were cleaned and x-rayed by one of the hygienists. “Dr. Payne will be in to see you in a moment,” she said when she was done.

Wait a second. Dr. Payne? I hadn’t made my appointment with Dr. Payne. I had made it with DR. WHITETEETH. In fact, I had been very specific when I called, telling the receptionist that a particular friend had RAVED about A PARTICULAR DENTIST. THE ONE KNOWN AS DR. HAROLD. WHITETEETH. AND I WANTED TO MAKE AN APPOINTMENT WITH HIM.

Whatever. I was already in the chair. What was I going to do about it now?

A few minutes later, Dr. Payne entered the room, reeking of Listerine. He was definitely not the friendly-looking man in the picture. Dr. Payne didn’t smile. He barely spoke to me before commanding me to open my mouth so that he could look at my teeth. After reviewing my x-rays, Dr. Payne informed me that a silver filling I had gotten as a child needed to be replaced with a crown. This was no real surprise to me- I’d always hated the filling and was more than happy to get rid of it.

Before leaving, I made an appointment at the receptionist’s desk to get my crown on the following Wednesday. She asked if I needed her to write it down for me, but I waved her off. “I’m putting it on my iPhone calendar right now,” I told her, punching in the date. “Wednesday’s actually the only day next week that I’m free, so this is perfect.”

That next Wednesday, I arrived right on schedule- no small feat, since the office was a good thirty minutes across town and in a crowded shopping district. The waiting room was deserted. The receptionist frowned when I approached the check-in desk. Some welcome. I entered my name on the sign-in sheet and she pursed her lips as she looked down at it.

“You’re here on the wrong day,” she told me. “Dr. Payne doesn’t even work on Wednesdays.” I stared at her. “But we talked about this last Thursday,” I said. “I put it in my calendar right on the spot. I told you Wednesday was perfect, because it was the only day I could do it this week.”

“Well you must have entered it wrong,” she said. “Your appointment is NEXT TUESDAY, at 11.” She wrote it down on a card and handed it to me. “Next TUESDAY,” she repeated, as if I was a little… off. “ELEVEN O’CLOCK.” I frowned down at the card. “Okay. I guess I’ll see you next week,” I said as I turned to leave. I was mystified. Was I losing my mind?

The next Tuesday, I showed up precisely at 11:00. No one behind the counter had a smile for me. I guess they saved them for the website. “You’re early,” the receptionist informed me as I signed in. “Your appointment isn’t until eleven fifteen.”

What the…?

I was starting to hate my decision to find a new dentist. Resignedly, I sat down and waited 45 minutes to be called back for my appointment. Once I was (FINALLY!) shown to a room, I made myself comfortable in the dentist chair. I knew it was going to take a while to get fitted with my new crown, but my husband had a gotten a few crowns himself over the years, and he’d promised me that it really didn’t hurt.

“Are you nervous?” the hygienist asked me as she set out the equipment.

“Nahh,” I said. “I know it’s not bad.” She laughed uneasily.

“I guess it’s different for different people,” she said.

What the heck was that supposed to mean?

A few minutes later, the dour Dr. Payne entered, muttered a hello, and injected my gums with Novocaine. Once I was sufficiently numbed, he got to work.

I won’t say it was the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, but it was definitely not as easy as Dennis had made it out to be. Dr. Payne drilled and filed and pushed and pulled until I began to feel like my teeth were part of a teeny tiny road construction project. It was not comfortable and at times, it really hurt. But that was nothing compared to the pain I felt when Dr. Payne’s hand apparently slipped, and the sharp tool he was using sliced across my lip. I shrieked in pain and alarm.

In response, Dr. Payne said… nothing. He acted like it hadn’t happened! “Jesus, take the wheel,” I prayed silently, closing my eyes. Opening a can of whup ass in the middle of a dental appointment just didn’t seem like a good idea.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was going to hurt?” I asked my husband on the phone when Dr. Payne had finally finished and I was back in the car. (This is a translation. My mouth was still numb. What I actually said was “Whaa dithint you theelll me ith wath going thu hurth?”)

“I didn’t want you to be afraid,” he said.

“And why didn’t you tell me they would just give me a temporary crown?” I demanded. “I have to go back to have the permanent put in in two weeks!”

“Oh yeah,” he said weakly. “There’s that.”

“WHAT ELSE HAVE YOU BEEN LYING TO ME ABOUT, DENNIS?!” I demanded. I’ll stop right there, because the rest of that conversation didn’t go well.

A few days before I was scheduled to have my permanent crown put in, I got a phone call from my dentist’s office.

“Uh…” the call began (never a good sign, by the way), “Uh… We are so sorry but there was a problem with the impression of your tooth and we’re going to have to redo it.”

“You’re saying you don’t have my permanent crown?”

“No, the lab called and said we’re going to have to take another impression. Sorry!”

“Wow.” I said. The kids were home that week. I was going to have to get a babysitter for the appointment. Unless…

“How long will it take to do the impression?” I asked.

“Oh, not long,” the receptionist assured me. “Maybe five or ten minutes.” Well, that was a relief. I would just bring the kids with me. They could certainly sit still for five or ten minutes.

“Okay, can I come in tomorrow morning at ten?”

“Yes, that’s fine,” she said.

The next morning, I returned to the dentist’s office YET AGAIN, with my kids in tow. Behind the counter in the waiting room, the receptionist and assorted hygienists all looked at me and the kids as if– well, there’s really no better way to describe it than this– as if one of us had just farted. Having no idea why I was getting so many dirty looks, I did what I always do when this happens– I began mentally running through all the posts and columns I had written over the years that had pissed people off. Were these hygienists Martina fans? Green Hills Moms Club alums? Upscale consignment sale owners? First wives? After eight years of blogging, the possibilities were endless.

“You can come on back,” one of the hygienists said tonelessly after a few minutes.

“Come on kids,” I said brightly. “This will just take a minute.” Together, we marched down the long hall to the examining rooms, which was like running a gauntlet of stink-eye from the hygienists lining either side of the hall.

“The children will need to wait outside for a moment while we numb you,” the hygienist said. “They won’t want to see that.”

“Numb me?” I said. “I thought this was only supposed to take five minutes.”

The hygienist cackled. “Five minutes?” she said. “More like an hour and a half!”

“The receptionist told me five minutes,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Well, I don’t know why she would have said that,” she told me. “You–”

“…must have heard her wrong,” we finished in unison. “Yeah, that seems to be a running theme around here.”

Do I even need to describe the nightmare of having the ENTIRE CROWN PROCESS REPEATED ALL OVER AGAIN, this time with my six and nine-year-olds at my feet? By some miracle, they behaved themselves- Bruiser was satisfied with the rare treat of playing with my phone and Punky had a new book of paper dolls. But yeah. Same song, second verse. Ow, ow ow. Annoyingly, the dentist didn’t utter one word of apology or regret for making me come in and go through all of that a second time.

NIGHTMARE.

“Whennnh will mah toof be reathy?” I asked when he was done.

“We’re going to have the lab put a rush on your permanent crown,” the hygienist told me. “So it will only be two weeks. It should be here by July 18th”

Where was this crown coming from, anyway? China?

“We’ll call you the moment it gets here and make an appointment to get you back in,” she said.

That was July 2nd.

Today, it is August 21st.

Guess what?

I still have a plastic tooth. In the back. Of my mouth.

They never called! And yes, I should have called them, but you know what? I’ve been busy. And I’ll be honest- I wasn’t relishing the thought of Dr. Payne fumbling around in my mouth YET AGAIN.

“Where’s my crown?” I’ve periodically asked my husband or the dog at random moments over the last six weeks. “Where’s. My. CROWN?”

They had no answers for me.

But when Dennis opened a bill for my dental work last week, complete with a late fee for non-payment on THE TOOTH I DO NOT CURRENTLY HAVE IN MY MOUTH, he decided he’d had enough. He called the dentist’s office.

Guess what? They have my crown.

I’m supposed to go in Monday, although I may have heard that wrong.

PRAY FOR ME.

 

Image via TrainJason/Flickr