On my most recent visit to the dentist, a stocky, bird-like dental hygienist greeted me and I was informed X-rays would be taken of my jaw. I followed the hygienist to the x-ray room, excited about the prospect of seeing my bone structure as I had spent the previous few weeks debating whether or not my cheekbones were average or higher than average. Thus, scientifically qualifying me as attractive.
“Can you take that out?” she asked,” pointing to my gold nose ring or as my father so lovingly called it, my “bull lead.”
“No, I’m sorry,” I replied, hoping that my brief stint at attaining “alternative beauty” would not impede my ability to receive my x-ray.
She frowned, sighed and said, “It should be fine, I think.” Her un-assuredness made me nervous as I worried that perhaps having metal in my nose would increase my chances of getting cancer from the x-ray, but by the time I had my head in the machine, I realized that if this didn’t give it to me, something else would.
“You’re all set,” she informed me, indicating that I could take my head out of the machine. I walked over and stood next to her, waiting for the image of my bone structure to appear on the projector. “Okay, this looks great, we’ll have the dentist see you now,” she said once the image loaded onto the screen.
“Could I have a copy of that?” I asked.
“Of the x-ray?” she looked at me, obviously taken aback. “What would you want to do with that?”
I imagined taking my x-ray around with me. Upon meeting someone new I could take it out as a reference. “See,” I imagined myself saying, “I am in fact attractive. You may not think so, but my cheekbones are higher than average.” You can’t argue with science and if you do, you’re either stubbornly religious or a revolutionary, neither of which fit into the small, unrealistic category of what I’m looking for in a partner.
“I just want to hang it on the wall,” I lied.
Although this seemed like a perfectly normal thing to ask, apparently she did not think so and responded hesitantly, “You’ll have to ask the doctor about that.”
The dental hygienist walked me back to the cramped, brightly lit examining room, avoiding eye contact and no longer attempting to make small talk. I sat down in the examining chair and went over my previous medical history in my head. I had an ultrasound to check for a sports hernia about a year before and images of the inside of my uterus were taken. If I could just get my hands on some copies of those then I could show them to more serious suitors. “Plenty of room!” I would say, cheerfully, pointing to the grey-scaled, cavernous image of my uterus.
I was brought back to reality when the mustached head of my dentist appeared, deity-like, above me. He asked me a few questions about my day and then proceeded to stick dental tools into my mouth, poking and prodding. The dentist rattled off a few percentages to the hygienist, mentioned a receding gum line and then gave me the okay to close my mouth.
“You still studying music?” he asked, wiping drool from the corner of my mouth.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Very good, very good,” he nodded his approval. “I had a friend who was a manager for rock bands out in Seattle. Very successful guy. One day he was driving through one of the less busy sections of Seattle, you know?” he added. I shook my head.
“Well, it was mid afternoon,” he continued, “and he was driving to pick up his daughter from school when he was rear ended. He was dead on the spot,” he paused and thought, I shifted my weight, caught off guard by the sudden change of mood. “He was basically dead,” he added, now looking off into the distance, “they kept him alive for a few days to harvest his organs and what-not…but he was brain dead. Young, too.”
He looked back at me, expecting a response. I offered my sympathy, my apologies for his loss and quietly exited the office, deciding that it was an inappropriate time to ask for a copy of my x-ray.
On my way to the elevator the thought struck me that the most consistent person in my life has been my dentist. If I were to die today there would be no one who would relay the story of my death to the unsuspecting victim of forced conversation. If I were lucky enough to have my dentist tell my story, I would not be the successful friend but a warning to something one might want to avoid becoming.
“I used to have this patient,” he would say, “always drooling on herself she was. Then one day she fell asleep on her stomach after her appointment and drowned. She was dead, immediately. They found her soon enough and tried to harvest her organs but upon the realization that none of them were salvageable they took the only good thing on her: her abnormally high cheekbones. Young, too.” Unlike the story about the successful musician, people would not respond with sympathy and apology but instead with suppressed laughter and disbelief. Perhaps my story would serve as a warning to parents who noticed that their children had a tendency to salivate an unusually high amount, or as an anecdote to tell to friends when the conversation slowed at parties. I leaned against a wall opposite of the elevator and waited for it to arrive, to take me out of the surreal world of teeth and dental floss and back to a busy sidewalk, a people zoo, where I could pretend that everyone was as lonely and detached as I. The man standing next to me let out a sigh, “glad that’s over, eh?” he said, referring to the dental visit.
“Yes,” I replied, as I looked up at the man with a swollen jaw, the man who resembled an over-eager hamster at feeding time. I had no bloodstains, no gold teeth, no numbed out gums or swollen anything, yet the recent trip to the dentist had been more terrifying than any of the physical pain a poorly trained hygienist can cause. In fact, it had bordered on mildly disturbing. As I climbed onto the elevator I realized why I felt so uncomfortable. If someone were to ask me who I was closest to, the most honest answer would be my dentist.
“Yes,” I would smile. “We’re quite close. He asks me about my day, tells me interesting stories and sometimes straps me down and sticks tools in my mouth. I don’t think he’s very attracted to me, but I recently had some genetic testing done and I think the results might change his mind.”
-Hannah Wenger, Contributor