It is Wednesday morning, the day before Thanksgiving. I am at my desk at the office, pondering an unmanageable and unrealistic to do list. I sooth my nerves with a piece of candy, a sugar-filled vestige from Halloween. As I chew and contemplate reallocating tasks to align with reality, I feel the sharp confluence of a molar crown with amorphous caramel. Darn it! Amid a very busy day, I have inserted a totally avoidable disruption.
Dental drama is one of the hallmarks of our family. All three kids required orthodontic braces, the total cost of which roughly approximated the price of a serviceable new car. My husband and I did not have dental insurance, so we paid by the month. Each son’s orthodontic debt was extinguished at approximately the same time the next child’s debt arose.
But braces were the least of our dental debacles. Fifteen years ago, middle son Andy crashed into the unpadded base of our driveway basketball hoop. He valued the jubilation of an imaginary game-winning shot more than he cherished his front teeth. The miracle of modern dentistry, combined with the blessing of our credit card, preserved his smile.
Andy’s reconstructive good fortune turned to misfortune several years later when we were in Pasadena on New Year’s Eve. The Mercer Island High School band was invited to march in the Rose Bowl parade. We were happy and excited with anticipation. However, one of Andy’s crowns decided it was the opportune time to escape the confines of his mouth. We spent New Year’s Eve frantically searching for an emergency dentist to place a temporary crown to ease the pain. The timing could not have been worse; I attribute it to payback for a sin I must have committed in a previous life.
Ten years ago, third son Evan was newly ensconced as a college freshman in southern California when I received a call that he had a searing toothache. The student health center referred him to an emergency dentist, who informed him that the infection in his tooth was so severe that it needed to be treated immediately. The ensuing root canal was just the start of the solution; for weeks afterwards, the infection would flare up unexpectedly, requiring him to miss class and trudge to the dentist’s office.
A couple of months ago, Evan’s tooth precipitated another emergency. He had an endodontic appointment the next morning for a root canal, but the pain was excruciating. The entire family mobilized in concert, a finely tuned and perfectly executed response to catastrophe. Daughter in law Flavia researched nearby emergency clinics in his small town east of the Cascade mountains. Brother Andy generously offered his girlfriend to babysit Evan’s puppy. (Chelsey kindly agreed.) The walk-in clinic gave Evan a painkiller strong enough to topple a rhino, which meant that he could not drive to Seattle for his appointment. The Best Dad in the World gamely drove to Cle Elum late at night to pick Evan up and bring him home.
All things considered, losing a crown in the middle of the week with an accommodating dentist less than ten miles away is not so bad. The doctor gently chastised me for eating caramels, reminding me that this was the second time that the same kind of candy had pulled a crown loose. I sheepishly acknowledged his statement and slunk out of his office like a five- year-old with a tummy ache, having been warned against eating too many cookies.
It has been years since the tooth fairy visited our house. The next time she does, I will ask her to divest us of dental demons. In return, I will swear off caramels for the rest of my life.
Well, at least until next Halloween.