“Argh . . .” I moan. “My tooth . . . fell out!”
“No it didn’t,” my WASP partner says immediately. When it comes to bad news, sunny denial is Charlie’s reflex response.
“I’m looking at it. In my hand. Glasses on.”
He has to drop the pretense.
“Does it hurt?” he asks.
“No, it doesn’t.”
“That’s good.”
“Is it?” I find my mood brightening. I flash on a freeway billboard I’ve seen a lot of a smiling brunette, eyes dreamily closed, under the magical caption: SLEEP THRU DENTISTRY.
A somewhat circular discussion ensues. It is true that I’ve stopped going to my dentist in Van Nuys since my move to Pasadena— More than, was it four, five, six years ago—? Oh God.
“You can see my dentist,” Charlie offers. “Dr. Melvoin.”
“Jack Black’s dentist?” I ask. Charlie is always one step away from stardom, as he’s a freelance theater producer. (True, there isn’t much theater in L.A., but fortunately, nor are there many theater producers.) His son’s pediatrician had the dubious honor of being the father of Hollywood madam Heidi Fleiss. I myself had my veneers done by yet another “dentist to the stars”—unfortunately, the “star” was one of those affable old character actors fourth barstool from the left on Cheers rather than a real star with a real nervous condition like Barbra Streisand.
“But wait,” I say, “wasn’t Dr. Melvoin arrested for that thing?”
“Oh yeah,” Charlie says.
“When did you last see him?” I say accusingly.
“I think I was still living back in Eagle Rock?”
Somehow this gives me an opportunity to lash out at my partner.
“Good lord! Look at us! We’re just show trash, aging bohemians who keep trying to phone this all in! We’re in our fifties now—the artsy ‘college’ thing isn’t going to hack it. We can’t just throw a paisley shawl over a peed-on futon anymore! We’re falling apart!” I fling one final triumphant—if slightly tortuously phrased—salvo at him: “There’s probably something about retirement we should be doing also!”
UPON HANGING UP, I realize this is an emergency situation. There’s no longer any pretending.
I now remember how my web designer friend Katie Lazar always said how she had the best, most gentle dentist. Trouble is, Katie has changed her e-mail so many times—from Hotmail to Gmail to RoadRunner—from Katie, to KatieKat, to KTG, to KandMSommers204 (was that her husband?)—
Oh, wait a minute, I think. Facebook.
I am proud to say I have several thousand friends on Facebook. I’m less proud to admit that this may have less to do with my intrinsic popularity than with Facebook’s curious algorithms. Example: while The Madwoman in the Volvo was my memoir on menopause, it is most often “liked” by Middle Eastern men brandishing rifles whose names are literally in Arabic. (Is it because they object to a woman driving?)
No matter. I type Katie a personal message: “I’m so humiliated. My dental health is so poor I literally spat a tooth out! I need the sort of dentist who specializes in adult babies in diapers wheeled in hysterical on gurneys! Who’s yours? Help!”
After a very carefully chewed (on the right side) early dinner, I return to check the computer. Next turn: in my state of disorientation, instead of sending a private message to Katie, I have somehow managed to post tidings of my rotting mouth to everyone I know on Facebook. We’re talking old high school and college friends, professional acquaintances, Goodreads buddies, the Sierra Club, and (if the photos are to be believed) no less than Barack and Michelle Obama.
On the upside? This thread is hu-u-uge, and (someone is typing . . . ) growing. It turns out, middle-aged people are really obsessed with their dentists. Within one hour, thirty dentists have been recommended, in locations ranging from Marina del Rey to Rancho Cucamonga, each with its own throaty exhortation (“Ignore the others—you must see Dr. Norris!”).
As the tsunami of comments grows into the night, my dental emergency starts turning into a kind of dental internet café.
Aside from fascinating details about molars, root canals, and bridgework, there’s riffing on the word “tooth”—the whole tooth, nothing but the tooth, you can’t handle the tooth, and of course, because I am half Asian: “Chinese dental time—tooth hurty.”
Fellow Facebook friends are starting entire side conversations with one another: “David, how can you go to a dentist named Devoree Prepsky?” and “You should talk, yours is Dr. Alma Vilkus-Stockus—what kind of a name is Dr. Alma Vilkus-Stockus?”
There’s rapturous discussion of favorite medications—from Valium to Ativan to Tylenol 3, in 2 milligrams, 5 milligrams, 10 milligrams. People go from describing dental emergencies they’ve endured to posting favorite dentist scenes from movies. These range from Dustin Hoffman being tortured by his Nazi doctor in Marathon Man to Tom Conti as a poet with bad teeth in Reuben, Reuben to Jack Nicholson as the crazy dental patient in Little Shop of Horrors.
At this point, new arrivals are marveling at the very size of the thread. One commentator suggests I dress my piece of tooth in a top hat and a costume, and photograph it like Mr. Peanut. Good God. My tooth has gone viral.
The bottom line: out of all these wonderful L.A. dentists in my brand new Rolodex, I decide I will go with Nan Thompson in Glendale, who “specializes in terror.” Even before coming in, I indulge in several phone conversations with the extremely patient Dr. Thompson. Emboldened by all those rantings on Facebook, I utter my “inner monologue” aloud—the first official sign of true middle age, to wit: “I am a fifty-five-year-old person who panics. Sure, I’ve had children and everything but the dentist is really where I freak out. I hold on to nurses. I grab them. I attack them. You may need to hit me over the head with a frying pan.”
She calmly listens as I ruminate and hypothesize about the various ways this could go (“I might jump out of a window”). I doubt eHarmony.com supports this much prescreening.
SO DR. THOMPSON and I seal the deal. The next day, Charlie drives me. In one of those signature romantic outings of middle age, we have made dual overdue dental appointments.
And let me tell you what a “terror specialist” does. She welcomes you. She seats you. She quietly adjusts the chair while making small talk. Then she says, very gently, “May I look into your mouth?”
Even though a chunk of fairly strange-looking tooth has fallen out and clearly something has gone terribly wrong, instead of screaming, “Good God! It’s the worst thing I’ve seen! The entire mouth is unsaveable!” Dr. Thompson warmly murmurs, without missing a beat, “Nice! Beautiful veneers! And not too many cavities!”
Do you see? This is a dentist with a very low bar. She’s saying, “Wow! Look at these! You appear to have teeth! Good job, young lady! You also have a head! Neat!”
In fact, Dr. Thompson is so mellow and friendly and complimentary that it takes totally happy and relaxed me a moment to process her review of my X-ray. To wit: “This may not be the news you want to hear, but due to a split root, infection, and bone loss, we should really extract that tooth.”