Little Repairs

My dentist retired this year and sold his practice to a younger dentist. Much younger.

I needed to reschedule an appointment, so I called the office.

“Happy Smiles!” chirped the voice on the other end.

Not, “Good morning,” or “Dr. Smith’s office.” Just, “Happy Smiles!” I cringed.

My first thought was, “Oh no. Is this how young dental practices operate?” I don’t do perky, especially on my first cup of coffee.

Don’t get me wrong. I like cheerful people. I like people with personality. But there’s a difference between naturally upbeat and the kind of enthusiasm that sounds like something from a commercial.

I considered looking for another dentist. Instead, I changed my appointment and decided to see for myself.

When I arrived, I was relieved to see Jeanette at the front desk. She’s worked there for years and now only comes in three days a week. I immediately told her, “From now on, schedule me only on your days.”

Thankfully, my hygienist, Stephanie, stayed. At my age, that’s no small thing. Finding a hygienist you trust is almost as important as finding a good dentist. We know each other’s life history, and an appointment is more like a lunch date.

Then the new dentist came in. He was young enough to be a grandson, which I decided was probably a good thing. At this stage in their careers, younger doctors are an investment. There’s a better chance they won’t retire before I do.

He turned out to have just the right amount of personality, mildly perky, but professional.

The practice now has one television screen that displays your teeth in startling detail. There, in living color, were two tiny cavities that had appeared in the last six months, an ulcer around an implant, and a crown that had quietly reached the end of its useful life.

I told him I appreciated knowing I needed a new crown, but honestly, a tiara was more my style.

He didn’t get the joke.

I asked Jeanette to please give me an estimate. I felt like I was talking about car repairs more than my mouth.

Nearly $2,000.

Fifteen hundred dollars of it was for the crown alone.

Turns out crowns are expensive whether they go on your head or in your mouth.

This is apparently what our lives are like now. Not one dramatic event, just a slow parade of small maintenance items, each one presented to you on a screen or a printout like you’ve won a prize you never entered.

The dermatologist’s office was next on the parade route.

Another MOHS procedure. That makes two this year, along with a variety of extractions.

Another squamous cell carcinoma. I do wish they’d rename squamous cell carcinoma. It sounds so ominous. “Squishy Thing” would be more fun.

The doctor and nurse were both a little too solemn for me. Finally, I looked at them and said, “If this doesn’t require a trip to West Cancer Center, I don’t care.” As the doctor started reading the pathology report, I put my hand on his arm and told him to save his breath. I wasn’t going to understand a word of it anyway. And we both had better things to do with our time.

It’s funny how aging works. It isn’t one dramatic moment when everything falls apart. It’s a crown here, a tiny cavity there, another skin cancer that no longer surprises you. Little repairs quietly accumulate while you’re busy making plans for the rest of your life.

None of it is catastrophic.

We’ve entered the maintenance phase.

Houses need repairs. Cars need repairs.

Apparently, so do we.

And I need a tiara for the rest of the journey.