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Good day to all.
I just got back from a short visit to the dentist and, regrettably, did not receive a squeaky-clean bill of dental health. Seems a decades-old filling has finally reached its expiration date and will need to be replaced.
At least a crown isn’t warranted, however, I’ll return to the chair in a month or so for what I’m told will be a 40-minute procedure.
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As a kid, the dentist’s office was probably my single most-hated place in the world. It was a house of torture back in the 1970s. The pain of the freezing needle. The gobs of cotton shoved into my mouth. The buzz of the drill. The blood on the bib.
My dentist back in the day was, indeed, a kindly gentleman, who had an office in a small building on Osborne Street that’s long been levelled. It wasn’t his fault I was terrified of the place.
The fear is long gone. In fact, I get mighty comfortable in that padded, reclining chair, staring up at the television mounted to the ceiling. This morning, the National Geographic channel had a show on about a baby gorilla at some U.S. zoo. My mouth was wide open but my eyes kept shutting. Hope I didn’t snore.
I book with the same hygienist every time. She’s a riot. And my dentist is a super guy. Both are big sports fans and, inevitably, grill me — before, during and after procedures — about the latest Jets rumours or the secrets to the Bombers success.
We also talk about what my kids are up to, vacations we’ve either taken or are planning, recent golf games, and movies or TV programs we’ve seen lately.
Somehow, they understand my gibberish, owing to a mouthful of dental equipment, and seem genuinely interested in hearing about my life.
I’ve had fillings, crowns and four wisdom teeth removed — pretty standard dental fare. No root canals, implants or dentures. That’s likely why I suffer no great angst when it’s time to head to the clinic in Garden City.
But I sometimes wonder how I’d handle the hours-long procedures some people endure when, say, they accidentally get teeth knocked out and need some major work.
My cousin took a stick to the mouth during a street-hockey game and was left with a freakish gap that was, I must admit, as funny as it was horrifying. But the humour of it soon vanished, and for years he had dental and jaw troubles that caused pain and suffering, physically and financially.
I vaguely remember when recently retired defenceman Duncan Keith lost teeth during the 2010 NHL playoffs after being hit in the mouth with a puck. This part I had to look up. The Chicago Blackhawks were battling the San Jose Sharks when forward Patrick Marleau tried to clear a rolling puck from the defensive zone and caught the former Winnipegger high.
Chicago Blackhawks defenseman Duncan Keith takes part in the Stanley Cup Victory Rally in Chicago in 2010. (Brian Cassella/Chicago Tribune/MCT)
As Keith skated off the ice, teeth were literally falling out of his head. He lost a total of seven chiclets — four on the top and three on the bottom — that night. But just 10 minutes later, after some quickie dental work and a frozen mouth, he was back on the ice.
Less than three weeks later, he hoisted the Stanley Cup.
“It’s just missing teeth,” Keith told reporters afterward, through a bloodied and swollen mouth. “It’s a long way from the heart.”
That’s one tough guy.
Apparently, Keith underwent several protracted stints in the dental chair during the offseason to regain his winning smile.
Hope the shows overhead kept him entertained.
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