Here is a charming little episode.
I was eating dinner and all of a sudden was missing part of a tooth. After gasping and racing to a mirror for confirmation I calmly called my dentist's emergency line. They don't actually have one, but I left an emphatic voicemail at the normal number.
It was spring 2020, COVID had just started. And I didn't own a car. So I rode my bike to the office. The dentist confirmed the tooth was chipped. Giving thanks for this verification required so much sarcasm suppression I nearly died.
My anxiousness is already through the roof. Did I have to BIKE to the office for this. Did my dentist need to go to dentist school for this. Could not a photo have been evaluated by e-mail or text. Could not some lower level of training be provided to a medical representative at, for example, the Walgreens near my apartment - a line could form out the door for such a person to decree the wholeness, or lack thereof, of any teeth in question?
Anyway, another appointment was made for drilling and mold taking. The dentist recommended gold for longevity and really insisted on calling the new tooth 'jewelry', but I was too anxious to laugh at this whimsical jesting.
Then it was time for the Tooth Installation. Out came the bike. On arrival at the dentist's office, no one was there. I called, I wrote, no answer. I biked home.
Scheduling snafu! The dentist was out with back pain. Is this not too much? It is too much. Should I get a new dentist? No. I'm in too deep.
On the fourth trip to the office, the bike ride was sunny, and the dentist is there. The gold 'jewelry' is ON THE VERGE of being placed when the dentist drops it.
No problem. It's fine.
Except it's not.
We cannot find it.
Four of us crawl around on the floor examining every inch of space and Ikea cabinetry. We make helpful statements about things having to be somewhere and scientific laws regarding the impossibility of physical objects vanishing into thin air. The dentist's enthusiastic assistant gets out a tool kit and starts disassembling the dentist chair. I wanted to protest this extraneous effort, but could not due to hunger and fatigue induced resignation.
At one point I look up from the floor search to see a bouquet of red roses thrust in my face. The bouquet is decently large, but not excessive. A respectable and appropriate size to convey regret for the aforementioned cancelled appointment. Yes. This saga is now complete with the Dickensian charm too long missing from modern dentist appointments.
We give up the search. I've been at the dentist office for 3 hours. The rose bouquet mostly fits in my backpack with a lot of the top sticking out and I bike home hoping someone will ask about it.
The fifth appointment is the final one. I now have mouth jewelry. I also bought a car.
