The Wild History of My Teeth
The history of my teeth is long and lurid. My very first dentist was a sadist in Montreal who had no time for children or their little milk teeth. He was so brusque and scary that my mother had to slip me half a Valium when I went to see him. It was the seventies, man. Everyone was doing it. I heard he was later murdered. By a patient. True story.
I expanded my dental experience to orthodontics, and suffered through years of monstrous headgear, elastics, and retainers that I would ultimately lose. Later, as a near adult, I went to a dentist who specialized in children. A pedodontist, I believe they’re called. I was 18 years old and Dr. Harris would still be telling me to “open wide like a lion and give me a big roar”. I moved on.
My last dentist was a tiny Estonian woman. A good dentist, but a terrible pessimist. She would peer into my mouth and mutter dire predictions about receding gums, cold sores, hoof and mouth disease – none of which I ever had, but I would leave her office feeling an impending sense of doom. I also went through braces for a second, and then a third time. The crooked teeth force in me is strong. I’ve had all my silver fillings replaced, several root canals capped by crowns, and four shiny veneers. I saw my latest dentist’s son in his office today, and said “Hey, how’s university? Because I’m putting you through it”. God. So funny. Good thing my teeth look ok when I laugh at my own dumbass jokes.