I'm eight, sitting in the dentists office. There's a looped VHS showing kid's cartoons about dentistry. "Your teeth are THE MOST IMPORTANT part of your body," it intones. This is the moment I start to suspect that the whole thing is a load of horse shit.
I'm nine. The dentist has convinced my parents that my slightly crooked front teeth are a problem which needs to be solved with a retainer. The infernal device puts metallic bands around my rear molars, and makes my mouth taste like metal. Fortunately, I discover that this problem is easily solved with a bit of elbow grease and a pair of pliers. After ripping out several sets of retainers, my parents and the dentists surrender. Somehow it still takes another 38 years to be diagnosed as autistic. My barely crooked front teeth go on to have no effect on my life whatsoever.
I'm 15. A dentist informs me that I have half a dozen cavities which urgently need to be filled. I'm busy with other things, however, and keep postponing dealing with them. As years go by and no problems develop, I start to form paranoid theories that the entire purpose of dentistry is to replace all naturally-occurring tooth enamel in the body.
I'm 21. A wisdom tooth becomes impacted and infected. The pain is very much like having a hot poker shoved through my jaw, except less enjoyable. A dentist extracts the tooth, and I spend the rest of my life profoundly and eternally grateful for the existence of modern dentistry. At a follow-up appointment, I ask whether maybe I should finally get those long-neglected cavities attended to. "What cavities?" he responds, confirming that my prior dentist was a scammer.
I'm 30. My wife -- whose parents enthusiastically embraced getting her teeth perfected when she was a child -- is now having to get most of her teeth replaced. For the second time. On credit. Her complications are having complications. On the plus side, from a dentistry perspective, her naturally-occurring tooth enamel is almost totally gone. Meanwhile, I've forgotten to get a check-up for the last nine years, and am having no problems whatsoever.
I'm 50. I probably really should get that check-up one of these days. On the other hand, it's been 29 years since my last check-up, and my teeth are still causing me no trouble at all. If I were to make a four-quadrant chart of my friends whose dental circumstances I'm familiar with, I'd be one of a very small handful of people in the "no tooth problems, never goes to a dentist" quadrant. There's a LOT of people in the "serious tooth problems, regularly goes to a dentist" quadrant. The fact that there's FAR fewer people in the "no tooth problems, regularly goes to a dentist" quadrant continues to fuel my vague skepticism of the profession. Maybe that's a sampling bias, but still...
Not withstanding all of the above: the next time a tooth does go bad, I will once again be profoundly grateful that they're there.
I'm nine. The dentist has convinced my parents that my slightly crooked front teeth are a problem which needs to be solved with a retainer. The infernal device puts metallic bands around my rear molars, and makes my mouth taste like metal. Fortunately, I discover that this problem is easily solved with a bit of elbow grease and a pair of pliers. After ripping out several sets of retainers, my parents and the dentists surrender. Somehow it still takes another 38 years to be diagnosed as autistic. My barely crooked front teeth go on to have no effect on my life whatsoever.
I'm 15. A dentist informs me that I have half a dozen cavities which urgently need to be filled. I'm busy with other things, however, and keep postponing dealing with them. As years go by and no problems develop, I start to form paranoid theories that the entire purpose of dentistry is to replace all naturally-occurring tooth enamel in the body.
I'm 21. A wisdom tooth becomes impacted and infected. The pain is very much like having a hot poker shoved through my jaw, except less enjoyable. A dentist extracts the tooth, and I spend the rest of my life profoundly and eternally grateful for the existence of modern dentistry. At a follow-up appointment, I ask whether maybe I should finally get those long-neglected cavities attended to. "What cavities?" he responds, confirming that my prior dentist was a scammer.
I'm 30. My wife -- whose parents enthusiastically embraced getting her teeth perfected when she was a child -- is now having to get most of her teeth replaced. For the second time. On credit. Her complications are having complications. On the plus side, from a dentistry perspective, her naturally-occurring tooth enamel is almost totally gone. Meanwhile, I've forgotten to get a check-up for the last nine years, and am having no problems whatsoever.
I'm 50. I probably really should get that check-up one of these days. On the other hand, it's been 29 years since my last check-up, and my teeth are still causing me no trouble at all. If I were to make a four-quadrant chart of my friends whose dental circumstances I'm familiar with, I'd be one of a very small handful of people in the "no tooth problems, never goes to a dentist" quadrant. There's a LOT of people in the "serious tooth problems, regularly goes to a dentist" quadrant. The fact that there's FAR fewer people in the "no tooth problems, regularly goes to a dentist" quadrant continues to fuel my vague skepticism of the profession. Maybe that's a sampling bias, but still...
Not withstanding all of the above: the next time a tooth does go bad, I will once again be profoundly grateful that they're there.